The Girl Next Door and Other Mysteries by Hillary Daniels

The Girl Next Door and Other Mysteries

A Collection of Mystery Stories written by the Grade 8 Students of

CDNIS 2009-2010 Edited by:

Lorraine Ho

Alessandra Tombazzi

1 Ms. Hillary Daniels

The Girl Next Door and Other Mysteries Editors: Lorraine Ho Alessandra Tombazzi Layout Design: Annika Bharwani Sophia Ko Ms. Hillary Daniels Cover Design: Rachel Lee Grade 8 English Teachers: Mr. Ross Bushell Ms. Nadine Christensen Ms. Hillary Daniels Special Thanks to Aaron Metz for the technical support.

Because we care about the environment, our choice of font is Ecofont. For more information and to download, go to www.ecofont.com

The Girl Next Door and Other Mysteries

A Collection of Mystery Stories Written by the Grade 8 Students of CDNIS 2009-2010

Dedicated to Ms. Nadine Christensen and Mr. Ross Bushell, whose teaching and guidance will be greatly missed at CDNIS

CONTENTS Introduction Hillary Daniels THE GIRL NEXT DOOR By Jaime Deverall Illustration by Crystal Leung A NIGHT IN THE GRAVEYARD By Mira Streckx Illustration by Crystal Leung AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT By Andrew B. Illustration by Anne Lau ABDUCTION By Halle Hagan Illustration by Tiffany Lam CROSS MY HEART AND HOPE TO DIE By Lorraine Ho Illustration by Rachel Lee I DID IT AND I WOULD DO IT AGAIN By Georgie Beale Illustration by Rhoda Wong MARRIAGE- A MOTIVE FOR MURDER By Tessa Hughes Illustration by Rachel Lee LOCKER 333 By Emily Tang Illustration by Rachel Lee THE STONE HEART By Celine Chan Illustration by Tiffany Lam Crystal Leung HARDBOILED By Toby Hung Illustration by Thor Thorkelsson A SĂ&#x2030;ANCE TO REMEMBER By Kaitlyn Ho Illustration by Rachel Lee DIFFICULT TO DECIDE: LOVE AND HATE By Janani Dhileepan Illustration by Jennifer Kwok

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MYSELF AND I By Alexandra McIntyre Illustration by Alexandra McIntyre Jennifer Kwok SILVIA By Veronica Dickson La Rotta Illustration by Thor Thorkelsson THE NEAR IMPOSSIBLE By Amit Gal-Or and Lorraine Ho Illustration by Kaitlyn Ho Author Biographies

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INTRODUCTION Welcome to The Girl Next Door and Other Mysteries, a collection of mystery stories written by the Grade 8 students at CDNIS. Jeffrey A. Carver once said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Practice, practice, practice writing. Writing is a craft that requires both talent and acquired skills. You learn by doing, by making mistakes and then seeing where you went wrong.â&#x20AC;? In English class, the aim is to not only facilitate the acquisition of writing skills, but to challenge students to take risks. The writers included in this book already have talent, and, as you will read, are rapidly developing the craft of writing. In the following pages, there is mystery, suspense, and of course, a little gore. I hope that whatever your taste, you will find a story in here that sends shivers up your spine. Enjoy! Ms. Hillary Daniels

The Girl Next Door Jaime Deverall

A blue Chevy pulled up at the front steps of Johnston High School, the local school at Orange County in the state of California. “Have a good first day at school, my dear Irina,” insisted her mother “Don’t worry Mama, I’ll be fine…especially now that I know he’s safe,’ replied Irina. And with that she gave her mama’s hand a gentle squeeze before she drove away, back to the home they had recently moved into. Mrs. Karlson tried not to worry but she was sure that her beloved daughter, Irina, was not having an easy time adjusting to their constant moves, whenever the need arose. She had hoped that by now, seventeen years after the deed, they could be leading a normal life. Sadly, “it’s a small world” when you least want it to be. “Good morning, Class 10B,” announced the middle-aged Science and homeroom teacher, Mr. William, as he entered a classroom full of bored adolescents preparing for a class they hated. As he wiped the blackboard energetically, he introduced a gist of the upcoming course while in his cloud of chalk powder. As he was about to begin the lesson, a rather petite, blonde girl entered the classroom, trying very hard to be unobtrusive. Despite her bright blue eyes and doll-like features, she looked unhealthy, as if she had not eaten a meal in days. Hearing her footsteps from behind, Mr. William turned around expecting to see the ubiquitous, late student who claims to have been to the nurse. Instead, Mr. William faced the new student, whose eyes were studying the linoleum floor with interest. “Class, I wish to introduce you to Irina Karlson, our new exchange student who comes from…um…” “Sweden,” added Irina

“Yes, that’s it, Sweden. Students, please welcome Irina!” “Sweden, home of the Vikings. I guess you weren’t invited to the Viking feasts,” teased Marie Callus – the Ms. Popular at Johnston High. When the laughter died down, Mr. William asked Irina to speak about herself briefly. Reluctantly, the new student walked to the front of the classroom, and with a hint an unfamiliar European accent, whispered, “Good evening…uh, sorry…um, good morning. My name is Irina Karlson and I’m 16 years…old…” “Oh, no! Don’t tell me she’s another one of them European girls coming to the U.S.A. in search of a better paying job for their fathers!” interrupted Marie. “Actually, I don’t...” The rest of what she said was drowned by the class’ laughter. Irina sat back down in one of the front-seats. In an attempt to salvage the situation, Mr. William assigned one of his best students, Kenneth, to be her schoolguide for her first few weeks at school. After a barely endurable first hour among teenagers whose only interest in Science was drugs, Kenneth decided to take his role as schoolguide seriously; he occupied the seat next to Irina for the rest of the day. When the school bell rang, signaling the end of school, Kenneth, a lanky teenager with big, brown eyes followed Irina out the door. “Hey! Irina!” called Kenneth. “I wanted to know if you were free today. Maybe I could explain social life here at our school. I mean, this morning it looked like you really bugged Marie.” “Oh…but I didn’t mean to…” “Marie Callus practically owns half the school. She’s the Ms. Alicia Silverstein at Johnston High. She tends to pick on many of the new kids around here.” “Oh…I guess I should try to avoid her, then?”

“Anyway, do you think it’d be cool if I dropped by your house today? Just to clear things up, and even welcome your parents.” “Actually, my house is, um…is full of boxes, and my mom is always busy…just settling down.” “Are you always this shy?” teased Kenneth “Um…” hesitated Irina, not knowing if what he had said was just a joke. “How ‘bout you come to my house?” filled in Kenneth “No…it’s okay I have to get home by three,” replied Irina “Well, how far is your home from school?” “Actually, its just five minutes away. It’s on Pederson Street.” “Pederson Street! That’s where I live too!” “Yeah. Great,” she replied in a dull voice “See ya around, neighbor!” With that, Kenneth left her in the long hallway, wondering about her secrecy and shyness. Being the curious fellow that he was, he promised himself to make it his personal mission to get to know her better. “Just a little more to the left…yes, that’s it,” he whispered to himself as he adjusted his binoculars. His conversation with Irina last week had made him curious as to why Irina was so secretive. After a week of knowing her, it was obvious that the new girl was not ordinary at all. She had a very sharp mind, especially during Science class. She immediately became Mr. William’s preferred student in the first couple of hours in the laboratory. Somehow, they spoke a different language together that was exclusive of the other students. As he spied on Irina’s house, he felt a slight surge of guilt. He had never actually looked into a person’s house before, and Irina was such a nice girl. However, he figured this would not hurt her and he continued to look into the old wooden house. He saw the lights in the kitchen and observed

Irina as she chopped something with a knife. He assumed that the lady beside her was her mother, as they were happily chatting. He continued watching them wash and cook and just as was about to put away his binoculars when he noticed a flash of dim light in the attic. It was a peculiar sight as the light quickly disappeared after it was turned on. He could also see the curtains parting as if someone was looking out from behind them. At first, he was perplexed, as he knew Irina and her mother were the only people who lived there. He considered calling her up and informing her of what he had just seen, but then he would have to explain why he was looking into the house. He decided to continue ‘spying’ on the house. However, after an hour, nothing else untoward happened.

It was just another normal day at school, and as Irina shut her locker, Marie, dressed in a cheerleader miniskirt, approached her with the rest of the cheerleading squad. “OMG! If it isn’t the new Swedish girl Earianna!” Marie exclaimed. “Actually…it’s pronounced…” “Do I look like I care if it’s Earianna or Irina? Anyway both names are stupid. Whoever came up with the name must have been drunk at the time or sumptin’. It was probably your mom, anyway!” “Don’t talk about my mom like that,” snapped Irina “OMG! Please tell me you didn’t just talk back to me. Girls, please tell me this Swede didn’t just talk back to me!” “Girls, girls, girls! Break it up!” shouted Mr. William. “Whatevs! I’m so gonna get you back for that. C‘mon, girls. This Earianna is such a waste of my time!” Marie and her cheerleading squad left Irina and Mr. William. “For a new student, you really seemed to have rubbed Marie the wrong way. Is this something I should get involved in?” questioned Mr. William

“Um…actually, I don’t know why she’s angry at me,” responded Irina. “Aye, girls nowadays,” sighed Mr. William. “Anyway, that’s not important. I just stopped by to ask how you knew about the theory you brought up in class, the theory of ‘8 Series’. The viral theory of ‘8 Series’.” “Oh…um…it just makes sense…you know…one step in front of another…I was simply testing some ideas…I have to go catch my bus now… thanks for showing up when you did.” Abruptly, Irina fled, leaving Mr. William with a very confused and quizzical look on his face. As a young man, Harrison William was always intrigued by the behavior of viruses. Now, in his late 50’s, he was technically, Dr. William, since he did his Doctorate in Viral Pathology at Imperial College in London during the Cold War. After he retired from a government agency, he chose to teach at the High School he attended as a young man. His life had drawn a full circle. In all his 7 years of teaching, only Irina had succeeded to remind him about the challenge and satisfaction of his research days. Somewhere in the back of his mind, she was strangely familiar. He had only known the child for a few months and already was certain that she was destined for great things. “Irina Karlson, paging Irina Karlson, please come to the office. Irina Karlson please proceed to the office.” Not knowing for what reason, Irina had a heavy feeling of dread as she climbed the stairs – the stairs that many students dreaded, the stairs that lead to the Principal Taylor’s office. “Irina, thank you for coming and I’m sorry if this is all a little upsetting,” greeted Principal Taylor soberly as he swiveled his grand chair to face her. “Principal Taylor, have I done something wrong?” “We hope not. Its just…you see, yesterday, a student reported that his laptop went missing. It’s Freddy’s – a classmate of yours, I believe. Now, we’re not accusing you of anything, but Marie here tells me that may know

something about the loss. Marie is sure that she saw you using Freddy’s laptop and that you were the last to leave the room.” “Hello, Irina,” snarled Marie. “Marie…how could you?” “Now, now. This shouldn’t be taken personally at any point; our school Detective Remy Drew would like to clear you immediately of any suspicions. However, the only way to do so is to inspect your home, if you don’t have any objections.” “My house?” “Yes, I’ve already spoken to your mother and we’ve decided that tomorrow Remy will pay you a visit and clear you of any suspicions.” “I guess, if you’ve spoken to my mother…” “Great! Hopefully this mess will all be resolved soon. Thanks for coming, I’m very sorry for the trouble and you may return to class now”

It was early Saturday morning at the Karlson home; the doorbell rang like a death toll. Irina rushed down the staircase in time to see her mother, Mrs. Karlson, peeking her dainty head out the door. As was her habit, Mrs. Karlson looked up and down the street before letting the tall man with kind eyes into her house. “Good afternoon…Irina. May I come in? As you probably know, I’m Detective Remy. I’ve come to inspect your house. Don’t worry; I’ll only be a little while.” “Oh…please come in,” replied Irina in a rather hesitant voice. Detective Remy then took a seat at the dinner table and observed the house’s interior. He saw a large glass cabinet with a collection of Russian orthodox artifacts and some bottles of vodka. The detective pointed out a beautifully sculpted bottle of vodka.

“Excellent collection! Do you mind if I…?” Picking it up to read the label, he carefully turned the hand cut crystal bottle. Appraisingly, he studied the pale young girl in front of him, who seemed uneasy. “Hmm…this bottle was made by a highly-praised crystal sculptor from Russia, I believe. May I ask how you acquired it?” “Oh…my mother and I bought it at a liquor store. Nothing special if you ask me.” “Nothing special! When you decide to get rid of it, please let me know! I’d like you to know that I am a Russophile – a great fan of all things Russian since my grandparents emigrated from Moscow when my mother was a baby. Does your mother speak Russian by any chance? She sounds just like my grandmother.” The aroma of vanilla, burnt sugar and butter wafted into the living room announcing the arrival of Mrs. Karlson with a tray of butter cookies. “Your favorite recipe, Irina! Just come out of the oven,” chirped Irina’s mother from the kitchen. She could not have imagined that her daughter welcomed the actual interruption even more than the cookies. “May I offer you coffee or tea Mr. Drew?” “Thank you Mrs. Karlson. I’m tempted to linger but do not want to take anymore of your time. I promised Irina that the inspection today would only take a few minutes. If you don’t mind, I will begin immediately starting with the kitchen,” mumbled the detective, his mouth half-full of piping-hot butter cookies. Detective Remy entered the kitchen. After observing the room, he found nothing but perfect cleanliness after checking all the drawers and cupboards. He then decided to skip the living and dining rooms, as they were practically bare of any furniture. He proceeded to Irina’s bedroom. After 2 minutes of quickly searching through all the possible hiding places, he continued on to Mrs. Karlson’s bedroom.

Halfway across the hallway, he heard the sound of rustling curtains and squeaky door hinges. He then heard a sound coming from the ceiling of the house. “What was that?” questioned Detective Remy in a surprised tone. “Sorry, I didn’t hear anything,” quickly responded Ms. Karlson. “Oh…” whispered Detective Remy to himself. At this point, detective Drew had decided that the Karlson mother and daughter were innocent of any wrong doing with regards to the lost laptop. Perhaps he was biased since Mrs. Karlson spoke with an accent just like his dear grandmother and baked equally as well! However, he was sure they were hiding something bigger (than a laptop) and he would interview her homeroom teacher, Mr. William, to shed more light on the situation. “I really think I should be wrapping up now. Thanks a lot for allowing me to inspect the house and I would gladly stay longer some other time for the cookies and chay. Mrs. Karlson, did you know that chay means tea in Russian?” In reply, the older lady hurriedly ushered him to the door with downcast eyes. Months later, it was a bright and sunny afternoon while Kenneth was taking his afterschool stroll through the neighborhood. Everything seemed normal but as he walked past Irina’s house, he noticed that their front door was ajar. He approached the house, rang the doorbell and called out her name. It was possible that Irina and her mother were not home and that they accidentally left their door open. Concerned, Kenneth walked up to the front door and peeked his head through the crack in the door. The room was in total darkness in contrast to the bright sunshine outside. As he tentatively reached for the light switch, he jumped at the sound of breaking glass somewhere overhead. He considered calling 911 or at least, calling Irina on her mobile phone as the house was clearly being burgled! The surge of curiosity won out and

seemed to force his legs to take him further into the house. The sound of breaking glass seemed imagined now, and the house was perfectly still. Not a sound could be heard. Finally, when he decided to call for help, he heard the sound of rustling curtains coming from Ms. Karlson’s room. Quietly, he crept in the direction of the sound (while his mind was screaming for him to flee the opposite direction). The billowing curtains were rustling with the breeze through the open window. The heavy curtains must have toppled the bottle left standing on the table by the window. He could see that now, as he observed the shards of crystal at the foot of the bed. Slowly, his vision adjusted to the darkness in the room. He froze. Kenneth stood mesmerized as he looked upon the sleeping body of a middleaged man on Mrs. Karlson’s bed. The young man’s feet felt nailed to the floorboards. How could he just stand there reading the titles of the Science books and papers strewn all over the bed? The next instant, Kenneth found himself on the front lawn gasping for breath and shaking every bone in his body. The next day at school, Kenneth seemed anxious. After school, he told her that Mr. William wanted to see her in the laboratory and that he would be waiting for her to take the bus home together. “Irina, may I have a word with you?” requested Mr. William as the last student in the laboratory left. The teacher continued, “Some time ago, Detective Drew and I met regarding the lost laptop. He seemed to have gotten on well with you and your mother. He can guarantee that you were maliciously accused of the theft of the laptop – which by the way, mysteriously reappeared on Freddy’s desk one day. However, Detective Drew is also certain that ‘everything is not as it seems”’ with the Karlsons. I assured him that he need not worry and he is happy to leave it at that. “Onto more recent developments. Yesterday, Kenneth told me that you had left your front door open. One thing led to another, and to cut it short,

he stumbled upon a stranger in your house. He was asleep on your mother’s bed. He told me straight away since he was afraid that the man might be having an emergency. Poor boy, something instinctive prevented him from calling the police; likewise, he couldn’t tell you as he felt that you may not wish to share certain information with him. As the boy is very clever, he somehow knew that he could trust me. We rushed to your address but you and your mother had arrived home by then and seemed undisturbed,” summarized Mr. Williams. “Oh…” sighed Irina with a frightened look. Gazing steadily at the young girl, Mr. William continued patiently. “20 years ago, I was an ardent admirer of a brilliant Russian scientist by the name of Ivan Karlovic. Dr. Karlovic was working on the “8-series” virus that was developed in Russian laboratories during the Cold War for the purpose of viral warfare. It would have devastated the world; genocide, like never in history, if it ended up in the wrong hands. The story in the Western world goes: When Dr. Karlovic realized the magnitude of destruction if his project was completed, unknown to his Russian colleagues, he mutated the virus to render it harmless. He mutated the lethal, indestructible virus so that it instantly perished upon contact with air or water. Therefore, harmless on any massive scale! The secret of how (or why) Dr. Karlovic was able to mutate the “8-series” disappeared with him. “Again, according to rumors, Dr. Karlovic may have escaped Russia with his wife, Katarina. Other rumors suggested that he and his wife became victims of the KGB – the cruel Russian intelligence agency – as he was never heard of again. Dr. Karlovic’s disappearance was a great loss for science and for humanity. I think of him often these days as my colleagues in government agencies inform me that a terrorist country is developing a similar “8-series” virus and nothing will stop them, since the only man who could stop them disappeared 20 years ago. “Dr. Karlovic lectured a select group of students. Fortunately, I was taught by one of his pupils. If Dr. Karlovic were alive today, I’m certain he would find a way to transmit his formulae to someone he trusted so that once again he could save the world from the deadly “8-series” virus. If I

could tell him anything at all, I would wish for him to know that he can trust me fully – even with his daughter, and that he no longer need fear his countrymen’s retaliation as the new leader was a scientist and again, rumor has it that the present leader considers Dr. Karlovic a hero.” After a long, silent pause, Irina looked at him steadily with bright anticipation in her blue eyes. “Thank you.” She then walked out of the classroom to join her friend Kenneth for the trip home. Instinctively, she felt this was a fresh start to a new life and strong friendships. Kenneth glanced sidelong at his schoolmate; she was glowing like he had never seen he before. Irina was the picture of your all-American “girl next door”.

A Night in the Graveyard Mira Sterckx “Please, Chiyoko, I want to go play,” urged her little sister, Ayaka. “All right. But you must promise that we’ll leave before dawn,” Chiyoko finally gave in. “You’re just scared!” “And I have a good reason.” “Girls, no fighting will take place in my house. Chiyoko, take your sister to the graveyard and be back before dark.” Their mother had spoken which meant they had to obey. Ayaka was the troublemaker of the family and dared to do things others wouldn’t have dreamed of doing. She had a bright, cheerful face with plump, rosy cheeks. Sometimes she went off-topic and talked and talked and played and played; those were her favorite things to do. However, her sister, Chiyoko, was the total opposite. She was calm and absorbed in the simpler things in life such as reading, painting, or making crafts and dolls. She wasn’t outgoing and only spoke when spoken to. However, she liked to quarrel with her sister. She had a more refined face, with less noticeable features. Their mother was the peacekeeper of the family and always bargained with her troublesome children. She had a pretty face that all the other women in their village were jealous of. She was kind and caring and was good in everything she did. “Yes! Thank you, Okasaan!” Ayaka respectfully thanked her mother. With a slightly frightened face, Chiyoko walked out the door and started making her way to the graveyard with Ayaka trailing behind her. “Nothing will happen. Nothing ever does. We just have fun. You don’t have to cross the bridge, you can just sit there and watch,” Ayaka encouraged her sister. Ayaka sprinted towards the bridge when she saw her friends crossing it. The sound of girls giggling and boys shouting echoed through Chiyoko’s ears; she was keeping her eye on her sister, just in case. 25

The graveyard was just like any other one. It had the trees, shrines, and tombstones everywhere. It wasn’t a pleasant place to be – everything seemed to be stained with sadness and death. There was moss growing on the tombstones and oozing out of any crack or hole. A few minutes walk into the graveyard and there was a bridge. In the olden days, this seemed to be the place where you walked over when you knew you were going to die. There were many legends based around this fact. Everyone liked to tell these legends and made up details just to make the story scarier. All the children in the village enjoyed playing around the bridge: if you could step over the bridge, you were brave. They would take a step in, a step out, giggling all the while. Little did they know what kind of fate a few extra steps could lead to… Chiyoko was scared of the graveyard and crossing the bridge as evil spirits roamed this area. There were countless rumors and legends about children never coming home after visiting the graveyard and crossing the bridge. Evil spirits fed on the souls of young children. They lured them into a desolate area and attacked with the swiftest of motions. These spirits were merciless and didn’t care about the children or their families. They were selfish creatures and let nothing get in their way. The trees struggled to keep still as the wind become stronger and stronger. Chiyoko became more restless. The sun was setting. “Ayaka!” she screamed. “Do not cross that bridge! It is almost dark, we must get going.” “You are always so afraid. I can’t believe that you’re older than me,” Ayaka said, pouting her lips. “It’s for the best. Do you want the spirits to eat you up like all the other children who never came back?” “Whatever.” Ayaka started walking back to the house with her shoulders drooped. Chiyoko looked back one last time at the children playing, so unaware of anything that could happen. She shook her head and prayed that none of them would get hurt.

Back at home, Ayaka started ranting to her mother about how Chiyoko ruined all the fun by making them leave early, but Chiyoko walked into her room and collapsed onto her bed, falling into a long sleep. She woke up in the middle of the night, sweating. What had happened? She looked around her. Everything was the same. Her sister was still sleeping soundly. It was probably just a bad dream; just another bad dream. When Chiyoko awakened to the morning sun, she put aside her bad dream and continued with her daily chores. Chiyoko had all the bad things that ever happened to her in a little box at the back of her brain, a box that would never be opened again. Countless bad dreams, fights with her mother and other horrid memories were stored there. When Chiyoko was done her chores and had eaten dinner, she started reading. She could read on for hours on end and lose track of time. For a moment she dozed of, and when she awoke again, almost three hours had passed. She was still as tired as she was a few hours beforehand, but couldn't remember doing anything. Her mother suddenly came into the house, screaming, “AYAKA! WHERE IS AYAKA?” “I’m here, mama. What’s wrong?” Ayaka said. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! There was a child found in the graveyard. I know that you go there a lot, so I couldn’t help wondering...” She sighed in relief. “I KNEW IT! Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I? The legend speaks the truth! Again there is another child killed in that wretched graveyard!” Chiyoko yelled. Ayaka and her mother tried to reassure her that it was just a coincidence, but Chiyoko knew that there was something very wrong with the graveyard. The child that was killed belonged to a family living close to theirs. They were normal and never did anything wrong. Why would the spirits choose to kill a child of such an honest family? Chiyoko shared these thoughts with her sister. “Hm…that girl always stole my dolls? Look on the bright side! At least it wasn’t any of us.” “How could you say something like that? The girl is dead,” Chiyoko said, shocked.

“All I’m saying is that we are the lucky ones.” Chiyoko began having more and more of the dreams. Glances of the faces of children screaming, panic-stricken and the graveyard lit only by the moon glaring down… This was strange, as she never went to the graveyard after dark, yet again, Chiyoko neglected to tell anyone these dreams and horrific images. She awoke the next morning and the sun was like a fire to her eyes. She lifted herself up from her bed and walked over to the kitchen to eat breakfast. Her eyes were only starting to focus on her surroundings when she noticed something red on her shirt. She became more alert and realized that it was blood. Chiyoko jumped up and screamed. “What is it?” Her mother came running in. “There’s…there’s...blood…blood on my shirt!” she managed to say. “My gosh, Chiyoko, I thought something serious had happened. You probably just squashed a fly or something in your sleep. Now, make some breakfast for you and your sister.” Chiyoko couldn’t wrap her head around the idea that this bloodstain was just an accident and was still shivering. How could it have gotten there? Ayaka came skipping into the room and bade her good morning. “Can we go to the graveyard today?” she asked kindly. “Fine, but remember my rule.” Chiyoko was scared enough as it was. “Be back before dark, blah, blah, blah.” They started making their way towards the graveyard. It was a chilly day and the wind was whispering softly, but was getting more aggressive each minute. Ayaka and Chiyoko were walking side-by-side in the graveyard, and they hadn’t seen any children yet. They walked past the trees, an old temple and countless tombstones. It happened when Ayaka spotted something colourful lying in the distance, she ran over the colourful bunch and screamed. “Chiyoko! It’s Mariko. She’s dead! She’s dead!” Ayaka shrieked. Chiyoko ran over to her panicked sister and averted her eyes from the rotting corpse. “Come, little one, it’s alright, it’s alright.” She tried to calm Ayaka down. She looked once more at the little girl. Her skin was white as a ghost’s and her lips were drained of all colour. Her clothes were slightly torn but still

relatively intact. Chiyoko recognized her, not from her playing with her sister in the graveyard, from somewhere else. “Oh, Chiyoko…why would someone do this?” Ayaka whimpered. Chiyoko was distraught by this death, yet she wondered where she had seen the girl before. She brought Ayaka home to her mother where she could be comforted even more, and where Chiyoko could tell her mother what had happened. “Oh no… oh, dear… not again.” Their mother shook her head. Ayaka was still weeping in her mother’s arms, the teardrops streaming down her face. “Did you know her well?” Mother asked. “Well… well, I played with her sometimes down by the graveyard but she always pushed me to the ground,” Ayaka whimpered. The next morning, the news of Mariko’s death had spread across the village. Chiyoko heard whispers of the old women talking about it. “She was the baker’s child...” “I heard her mother just let her run wild through the graveyard after dark...” “She was badly bruised...” Chiyoko was still worried about what had happened. Where had she seen that girl before? Back at home, Ayaka was playing with her dolls. “Chiyoko, can I ask you something?” she queried. “Of course, you can ask me anything.” “Why would you do that?” “Do what?” Chiyoko was confused. “I think you know what I mean. Mariko’s death wasn’t an accident. We both know that, but was the cause of it the legend… or something else?” “Girls! Have you finished your chores? I need some help with dinner!” Mother shouted from the kitchen. Chiyoko looked at Ayaka with a horrified look as she calmly got up and walked to the kitchen. The day was over and the sun was setting, a fiery ball sinking in the horizon. Chiyoko returned to her room, very tired, but she had so many questions as to what Ayaka had said. She lay awake thinking. Her mind was thinking dark thoughts: “Could I have been the one to murder those children in my sleep? Did I have something to do with those murders? Maybe this has

something to do with the dreams I’ve been having.” She put all these thoughts away, and was going to ask Ayaka about them tomorrow. “Chiyoko,” Ayaka whispered into her ear. “It’s time.” “What? Ayaka, it’s the middle of the night. Let’s talk about this tomorrow,” Chiyoko muttered, barely audible; she was so tired. Ayaka starting pulling her sister’s arm, nudging her to get out of bed. “Fine, I’ll get up, but why the hurry?” “You’ll find out soon enough,” Ayaka said. Ayaka took Chiyoko’s arm once more and started walking out the door. “Ayaka, you’re scaring me. Where are we going?” Chiyoko mumbled. She kept silent and was walking towards the graveyard. There was terror in Chiyoko’s eyes, but Ayaka kept on walking, forcefully, like a determined soldier. As they got closer and closer to the bridge you could faintly make out a figure tied to a tree. “Ayaka, who is that?” Chiyoko cautiously asked. “Oh, Chiyoko. Don’t you remember her? When we went to the graveyard and she took the origami I made and she crushed it?” “Is that what this is about? A few girls just being mean to you? Just a few harmless bullies? You can overcome things like this! You talk to them, you don’t hurt them.” “I did at first, but it kept on happening. They kept on being mean to me.” The girl tied to the tree was screaming, crying, oblivious as to what was about to happen. Ayaka stopped a few meters from the tree, and without any words, Chiyoko suddenly knew what was going to happen. The moon was looming in the sky, looking down at the dreadful deed that was about to happen. Ayaka walked forward once more, her eyes burning with rage. She untied the girl from the tree, but kept some rope around her torso so she could be pulled along. “Come on, quickly!” she cried at the girl. Ayaka pulled the girl along till they reached the bridge. “Now, you go to the other side,” she ordered the girl. “Please, don’t let her do this.” The girl looked at Chiyoko, whimpering. Ayaka gave her a strong push and the girl reluctantly stepped over to the other side of the bridge. “Now, Chiyoko… you know what you need to do.” Ayaka said to her sister with a smile. “No. I don’t want to do this Ayaka. I would never kill anyone.” “Oh, but little do you know, who do you think killed all those other girls? You did.” “I can’t kill anyone.”

“Chiyoko, this is what always happens, I bring the girl over here and you help me finish her off. When I tell you they hurt me, something just snaps and you want to kill them.” “Hey! I’m leaving! You stupid girls didn’t think of this, did you?” the girl shouted, and started running back to the village. She had a big grin on her face as if she was lucky or had escaped. Chiyoko looked at her sister. Then she looked at the girl, and then she started running after her.

At the Stroke of Midnight Andrew B.

It was a cold, dark night, and the winds whistled against the stony, medieval castle. The sky was hazy, and the moonlight fought to pass through the fog. The water along the island’s shoreline glimmered dimly, while rain could be heard pattering softly on the ground. In the distance, a flash of lightning was followed by a single clash of thunder. The castle was centuries old, with two towers on either side of the main structure. There were few windows around it, but any found were crudely shaped, degrading slowly as time marched on. Centered in the middle of the main structure was a pair of large brass doors that were both welcoming and intimidating. A towering American flag was erected proudly a few hundred meters in front of the castle, the flag of Hawaii directly beneath it. Yet oddly, the castle and its owner did not fit in with the relaxed, low-key culture of their surroundings. It was in the giant castle that a man of exceptional wealth lived, detached from society on his small private island. The man’s name was Jerry Gerry, a man in his fifties although he didn’t look it. His perfectly groomed hair matched the color of his favorite grey flannel dress jacket. His piercing blue eyes had a desire and hunger to them - the eyes of a perfect businessman. He had thin but rosy lips, which belied the fact that his mouth had kissed many women, and cologne that made those women desire him even more. He was clean-shaven - a man of his stature had neither the desire nor the reputation of a messy, unkempt face. He was fit but not muscular, tall but not giant. Jerry was especially excited tonight as he was reacquainting with two former friends, both of whom he had wronged. However, the recent depression had made him realize what was important in life, and he wished to reconcile with the two. Corsair, Jerry’s vintage 30-foot motor-yacht, sliced gently through the water, waves lapping at its side as it slowed to a halt. A butler was at the wheel while a beautiful lady and a dashing man were talking softly aft. Corsair pulled up against the dock, and in his usual mannerly way, the man helped the lady off the boat. Waiting for the two was Jerry Gerry. He saw

once again the strong jaw and athletic build of Cornelius von Matterhorn, his former business partner in the automobile industry. He was American like Jerry, but raised in the south - his accent made this very apparent. He had slight stubble and blonde hair - no doubt from the years as a youth he spent in the sun. He had a rubicund complexion, and had you not known him, you would assume he had already consumed two glasses of wine. On his left was Lady Farewell, a gorgeous middle-aged woman from Detroit whom Jerry had met several times while in the car business. She was perfect in every way - flowing blonde hair, dazzling emerald eyes, thick, luscious lips and a fair complexion. Even from his distance, Jerry could still smell her sweet scent of roses. Finally, the driver stepped up, introducing himself to the two guests. “Hello sir and madam, my name is Preston Redrum. I am Mr. Gerry’s butler and in charge of the staff at this lovely estate. I am quite sorry I did not introduce myself to you when I picked you up, as I had orders to escort you here immediately.” Preston spoke with a posh British accent, the typical butler you might find attending to the Queen’s personal quarters. He was a squat fellow, and was in his mid-fifties. His plump face, mysterious curly mustache and cruel mouth often led people to believe he was a suspicious character. He held out a stiff, clammy hand with which he extended to the guests. “It’s so lovely to finally see you both,” Jerry remarked. “Please, come in for dinner. We have much to discuss.” The guests followed Jerry and Preston through the welcoming gates, eventually arriving in a sitting area. Preston took the jackets of Lady Farewell and Cornelius, disappearing out of sight. Jerry then led them into the dining room. Cornelius looked around the room, admiring the elegance of the various furnishings and paintings that hung from the walls. His eyes spotted a small table, on top of which were many opened letters. In his usual curious nature, he walked to the table and carefully examined the letters. There was something strange about them. Every single one of them, (there were eleven on the table), were from the same address, and were written in a deep red, which appeared to be blood. He unfolded a few, and found crude words and small riddles.

“Jerry, these letters are very peculiar. Have you been receiving threats from anyone?” Cornelius inquired. “As a matter of fact, Cornelius, I have. They started arriving a year ago one per month. They write of death and anger. Whoever this person is, he’s either crazy or he wants me dead,” Jerry responded. “I’m still awaiting my letter for December,” he then joked. A little unnerved, everyone took their seats: Jerry at the head, Cornelius at the foot, and the lady in the middle. The main course arrived shortly, and there was much drooling over the rare steaks with sides of mashed potatoes that appeared in front of them. Times had been hard lately, even for Jerry, and this was a perfect occasion to indulge oneself. “Now, for the reason you have come,” Jerry stated after an awkward silence had set in the room. “Oh, don’t worry about it. We were all younger then. I can see how well you’ve turned out now. You’re a good man, Jerry,” Lady Farewell replied quickly. “And you, Cornelius? What are your feelings on the matter?” “Well, Jerry, I can’t say I’m happy about what you did. I spent a year in prison - mercifully a white collar one with great tennis facilities. But the lady is right; you have changed, and everyone deserves a second chance,” Cornelius finished with a sigh. *** 1912 It was the dead of winter, and a strong man was standing out in the cold, dark street wearing a beige trench coat and a black top hat. He was tapping the ground, waiting with impatience for his company. He had been called to the meeting spot earlier in the day, being told it was desperately important. His companion was a partner of his in their automobile company, and was coming to talk to him about a new advancement. He tapped the pavement again, and this time a second man in a trench coat arrived. However, he brought with him five others. Beginning to suspect something, the first man backed away.

“You have nothing to fear, Cornelius. These fine officers won’t hurt you. They’re just here to take you in for what you’ve done.” “What have I done? Whatever it is, I’m innocent. I’ve never cheated in my life.” “Cut to the chase Cornelius. You betrayed the company – shared inside information with our competitors.” “Jerry, I swear I’ve done nothing of the sort,” Cornelius looked into the eyes his partner, filled with betrayal and emotion. The man’s piercing blue eyes did not look back. “Officers, he’s all yours,” Jerry said in a matter-of-fact way as he turned, popped his jacket collar, and walked off into the darkness. *** “I was so deeply sorry, Cornelius. You were the scapegoat we were forced to use. Unfortunately, it was my decision in the end. Someone had to take the fall, and old Mr. Anderson would have been furious if his son were rightfully arrested for the leak,” Jerry divulged with a tear dripping from his eye. “You made a tough choice, Jerry,” Lady Farewell said solemnly. “I made a tough choice with both of you. Now, I don’t know if I made the right ones,” Jerry responded. *** 1917 The sign outside the hotel read “The Ritz”. In room 112, a striking woman lay on the bed, her blonde hair resting on the covers. She was very familiar with the room - its elegant blue drapes and light yellow carpeting. There was a desk opposite the bed, and she saw her dazzling figure reflected the desk’s mirror. She wanted to look exceptionally beautiful tonight as her lover had something important to talk with her about. Her father, who had called earlier that week, wasn’t happy about her relationship. He wanted his daughter to marry within British royalty, and his plans had never included her running off to America.

The lock turned quietly and a man walked in. “Honey, you made it!” she rejoiced as she jumped off the bed and into his arms. It was then that she sensed something wrong. His normal greeting included a passionate kiss from his thin, rosy lips, but tonight he pushed her away gently. “Jessica, I’m afraid I have some grave news. Take a seat,” he pleaded. The only words Jessica heard next were, “My wife has found out about our relationship”. The rest was a muffled jumble of sentences. She couldn’t believe it. She was deeply in love with this man, and insanely jealous of his wife. On the outside, Jessica was phlegmatic. But deep down, she was very emotional. “Why won’t you leave her for me?” Jessica demanded. “You can’t do this to me!” “It’s my decision, and I can’t leave my wife. I’ve made enough mistakes in my life.” “So now I’m your mistake!” Jessica shrieked, and then stormed out of room 112. Before slamming the door, she took a deep breath, regained her composure, and said coolly, “One day, Jerry, you’ll realize not leaving her was a mistake. One day, I’ll have my revenge on you.” *** “Well, after you wrote me those long apology letters a few years back, I began to forgive you,” Cornelius reflected. “I agree. This gesture was especially kind as well, though I understand you were delayed in inviting us because of the recent economy.” “Very well. I’m glad that this is all in the past now. However, I am forever in your debt. Should you ever need anything, I will always be there to help,” Jerry said honestly. “I think I speak for the both of us when I say all we want is your friendship, Jerry.” “And perhaps an estate comparable to yours,” Cornelius joked. “May I present desert, sir? Tonight we have a lovely selection of chocolate

cake with a side of vanilla iced cream. Plates will be arriving shortly,” Preston stated distantly, clearly uninterested in his role as the butler to these people of superior stature. Dessert arrived before the bat of an eye and it was enjoyed immensely. The rich chocolate cake was just the right finish to a delicious meal. After their plates were empty, Jerry invited his guests into the study. It was one of the oldest rooms in the mansion - filled with nautical and historical books, soft leather armchairs and a small bar near the corner. Two lamps shone warmly, emphasizing the wood paneling of the room, and a grandfather clock rested against the back wall. Once the guests were comfortable, Cornelius pulled out cigars for the men and a pack of Salems for the lady. “They’re homegrown from my tobacco field. Unlike other brands, Matterhorns are roasted,” Cornelius commented. “Here, Jerry. Take this one,” he said, motioning to a cigar. Preston then pulled out a fine English brandy, of which he had cunningly “imported” that morning. “Sir, a brandy from ’21. The beginning of Prohibition and the year I came to work for you. I think you’ll find this vintage has an especially good bouquet,” Preston persuaded. “Very good choice Preston. Pour three glasses, would you?” Jerry responded. Preston turned away and poured three glasses. He brought the bar around to the guests, motioning at their glass. Cornelius took his with a nod and slowly consumed the drink. Lady Farewell chose a glass, but Preston insisted that it was too much alcohol for her. Therefore, not wanting to make a fool of herself later in the evening, she took the glass less full. Finally, Preston brought the brandy to Jerry, who drank it in-between puffs at his cigar. Preston then spoke directly to Jerry. “Sir, a note was just found at the door. It was addressed to your residence.” “How very strange,” Jerry pondered. “Let me have a look at it, Preston. Ah yes, it’s from the same writer.” Jerry removed the note from the silver platter Preston had taken the liberty of serving it on, and read it once to himself before sharing this discovery with

his friends. “Look at this,” he remarked. When the clock chimes twelve, and the cuckoo arrives, three of you will live, and one won’t survive. You ask why twelve, well that’s too bad. Twelve is why I’ve waited; my revenge must be had.” “Why, that’s exactly five minutes from now, Jerry. What do you think is going to happen?” Lady Farewell questioned nervously. Before Jerry could respond, Cornelius interjected, as if almost trying to reassure himself, “ But in the privacy of our study and in the protection of this home, how would it be possible for one of us to be killed?” Even Preston, who usually stayed out of conversation, expressed his fears. “And the note mentions twelve,” he exclaimed. “What sort of maniac would do this? Are we all connected to something with twelve?” Ding, ding, ding. The old, brown grandfather clock was sounding slower than usual, giving the victim lingering precious seconds to live. Ding! The clock struck midnight. Jerry Gerry slumped off his seat and onto the fine Persian carpet. There was no blood, not even a weapon in his back - just a deadly silence in which everyone else stared in disbelief. *** 1938 Five years after Mr. Gerry’s sudden death It was a cold, dark night, and the winds whistled against the stony castle. It was in this castle that a man of exceptional wealth lived, detached

from society on a small island in Hawaii. His name was Preston Redrum, former butler to Jerry Gerry, who had died suddenly almost five years ago. Directly after the death, Preston had called police to the scene, who weren’t able to find the cause of Jerry’s death, but did discover that he had suffered from a stroke. Jerry’s guests went back to their hometowns and occupations, and little was heard from them again. It was tonight that Preston was walking around his mansion, sporting a grey flannel dress jacket while he smoked his expensive pipe. From afar, he heard a knock on his large brass doors. It was an attractive woman, but it was apparent she was losing her beauty as she aged. Her eyes were wide with suspicion and her body was tensed. “Come in,” called he, who had nothing to fear. “Why, hello, Jerry.” The woman hesitated for a moment. And then, “Oh Preston, I’m very sorry. I could have sworn for a moment you were Jerry. But that’s nonsense; we all know he passed away a few years ago. The only reason I confused you with him was because you’re wearing his favorite outfit.” “Why, my dear lady, I am more than Jerry ever could have been,” Preston sneered. It was now that Preston exploded with delight, spilling emotions he had kept hidden for many years, “You see, Jerry was a kind man when you last saw him. Yet before that, he was rich and greedy, and had all the things I’d always dreamed of having. For twelve years I served this man, and never was I recommended for other positions. My dear lady, Jerry was living the life I could have made in England. I didn’t come from a wealthy family, but I could have built my own empire had I not been shipped here in search of work,” he said scornfully. “So you’re the one who killed him?” “It’s very rude to interrupt one’s story, Lady Farewell. So every day, my envy grew for this man, to a point where it was uncontrollable. When he was out of the house on business, I was supreme ruler of the estate. The household keep was mine to command and the servants would be at my heels. I loved that feeling of power. It made me want to be him even more. And then, one day, I came across Jerry’s will. He had left everything to me, his loyal servant...” Preston trailed off, deeply in thought about past events. “How could you, Preston! That’s no reason to murder someone.”

“But I didn’t murder him, Lady Farewell! At least not in the conventional way. Now, please, let’s not discuss such shady pasts out here. I would really hate to have you standing in the cold all night. Come in, come in!” Preston insisted as he shut the large brass doors behind her. There would be no escape. “I really can’t stay long, Preston,” was Lady Farewell’s hesitant reply. “Well, then, that won’t be necessary. We’ll keep it short. Perhaps you could join me for just a small glass of brandy?”

Abduction By Halle Hagan Alexandra Calypso exited the “Pretty Curl” salon located on Wan Chai Road in the brilliant city of Hong Kong. It was 6:30 p.m., September 4, 2008, and the sky was beginning to darken. Bright lights on the buildings turned on, casting a glow over the streets. She walked forward along the aged, overly crowded sidewalk, her fifteen-year-old thin body moving as fluidly as a gazelle. She hailed a taxi, climbed into the smoky cab, told the driver her home address, and leaned her head, which overflowed with long blonde hair, onto the seat and closed her startlingly blue eyes, preparing herself for the studying that awaited her at home. Just then, a heavy object crashed upon her head. Alexandra’s eyes twitched in their closed state. Before she succumbed to the darkness, a warm liquid began trickling down her head. The blood covered her beautiful fair face quickly and forever stained the baby blue sweater she wore. ~~~ At 7 o’clock that night, fourteen year-old Anna Marie Santiago left her family’s cozy apartment in the old residential district of Happy Valley. She was a beautiful girl, standing about five feet eight inches. She had straight blonde hair that touched her shoulders and complimented her shocking green eyes, which stood out against her dark olive skin. Once outside, she hopped onto a red public bus reeking of Dettol that was bound for Admiralty, a nice shopping district, where Alexandra resided. It was a Thursday, and the girls usually did their homework together on those nights, since they went to the same school and were in the same year. Alexandra was an exceptional student and Anna Marie was average, but she had potential. She simply didn’t put a lot of effort into her work. Her mind was usually on sports. Anna Marie knocked on the large wooden door of Alexandra’s apartment around 7:15. No one answered. She rang the bell and again; there was no answer. After calling Alexandra’s mobile phone and being forwarded to her voicemail, she still had no idea where her friend was. Alexandra lived with her father, as her mother had died of breast cancer when she was a child. Anna Marie decided to call him to see if he knew where Alexandra was, since it was so unusual that she couldn’t reach her.

“Hello, Mr. Calypso, it’s Anna Marie,” she said. “Well, Hi Anna Marie. How are you?” Mr. Calypso said. “I’m fine, thank you. And you?” she asked. “That’s good to hear. I’m doing pretty well myself,” he stated. “I’m standing outside your door right now, and I was just wondering if you knew where Alexandra is. She’s not home, and isn’t answering her phone. “ “Hmm, that’s strange. I know she was going to get a haircut today, but she should be home by now.” “I see. Maybe I’ll go home, and just see her tomorrow at school. This is a bit strange, though,” she mentioned, a bit of worry in her voice. “It certainly is. I’m sorry I couldn’t be much help, but I honestly have no idea where that girl is.” “Okay. Thank you, Mr. Calypso.” “Anytime. I’ll let you know if Alexandra calls.” “Thanks. Goodbye.” “Bye.” Soon she headed home, did her homework, took a shower and sat at her desk, waiting for it to get late enough to go to sleep. At nine o’clock, her phone rang. She rushed to the other side of the room as soon as she heard the first beat of the ringtone she was so familiar with. She looked at the caller I.D. before answering and found that it read “Mr. Calypso.” She pressed the green answer button, and carefully placed the phone next to her ear. “Anna Marie?” a deep, masculine voice asked. “Yes,” she answered. “Is this Mr. Calypso?” “Yeah. I’m starting to worry. Alexandra hasn’t come home yet, and I’m afraid something’s happened to her.” “Oh, my goodness,” she said, with a slight horror-stricken gasp. “I’ve already called the police, and the security team from work is out looking for her. There should be quite a search going on tonight. They started at the salon.” “I see. I’m going to come, too. She’s my best friend. I want to search with you.” “Okay. I’m going to be with the police. Would you like to come with us?” “Yeah. That sounds good.” “Okay. I’m meeting them at the “Pretty Curl” salon. That’s where she was getting her hair cut. The address is 34 Wan Chai Road. It’s in the Goldenheim Tower on the fifth floor.” 44

“I’ll meet you there, then. Should take me less than twenty minutes.” “Alright, see you soon. Please be careful on your way.” “I will. Don’t worry. See you soon.” The line went dead. After changing clothes, explaining the situation to her mom, who wished her luck, and traveling in a taxi to the lively Wan Chai, it was already 9:30 pm. Anna Marie walked up the sidewalk a bit, and came upon Mr. Calypso. She said his name, and his tall, muscular form turned around immediately. He looked at her with a sad expression in his soft green eyes that were usually filled with joy. Her eyes then filled with tears as he explained to her that the police were assuming there had been some sort of abduction. They had already interviewed all of the people that had been in the salon that afternoon, and each had proof they were busy with other things at the time Alexandra left. Stacey Mok, the specialist who had been cutting Alexandra’s hair since she was little, said that Alexandra left the shop in good spirits, and was flashing her white, radiant smile, just as she always had. Both of them let their tears flow freely at that statement. The police had already searched every square inch of the small upscale salon, and knew for a fact Alexandra was not inside. Mr. Calypso explained to Anna Marie that they needed to find some other suspects to investigate. He asked her if she knew if Alexandra had any enemies, or had had any quarrels with anybody recently. She couldn’t think of anyone. As far as she knew, Alexandra was on good terms with everyone in their school. The only person she could think of that might have had something against her was her ex-boyfriend. She had broken up with him the week before. His name was Sam Pattinson. As they were discussing him as a suspect, a petite woman in a tidy fitted black suit hurried over. It was Detective Mary Sui. She was the head officer working on the case. With quick strokes of a ballpoint pen, she took down Pattinson’s name and made a phone call, gathering his residence information from the person on the other end of the line. The detective, Anna Marie, and Mr. Calypso decided to go to Sam’s house that night, so that any clues they might find would be fresh. He lived in Repulse Bay near the beach in a fairly modern, large green apartment building that towered sixty floors high. When the group of three arrived out front, Detective Sui showed her badge to the security guard, and he 45

let them through the gate. After parking close to the curb, they all entered the building, got in a shiny new lift, pushed number thirty-six and waited. Soon after, the group stepped out and turned right, proceeding down the narrow, freshly-carpeted corridor and knocked on the wide white door of apartment 3600. Not more than thirty seconds later, a surprised Sam Pattinson opened it and leaned his lanky frame against the doorframe. His deep brown eyes searched Anna Marie’s face for an answer as he asked, “What are you doing here?” “Hi Sam,” said Anna Marie, looking somewhat disgusted by the heavy smoke smell coming off the boy’s body. “Um, hi,” Sam said in a husky, inquisitive voice. “We’re here for business purposes,” Detective Sui stated. “My name is Detective Sui.” “You see, Alexandra Calypso has gone missing. We are trying to find out where she is,” Mr. Calypso said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And how exactly am I involved in all of this?” questioned Sam, as he leaned his head uncaringly against the side of the door, his thin sandy blonde hair parting as he did. “I don’t like your tone, young man,” Mr. Calypso snapped. “I don’t even know who you are,” Sam snapped back. “Alexandra,” said Mr. Calypso, “is my little girl.” “Oh. Now I understand. You think I took her or something?” questioned Sam. “No. We’re not jumping to conclusions. We simply want to interview you. We understand that your relationship with Alexandra ended recently. Why did that happen?” inquired Detective Sui, her chocolate eyes growing smaller with each word she breathed. “None of your business,” snapped Sam. “Okay. Where have you been this afternoon?” asked Detective Sui as she rubbed her eyes, exhausted. The hour was late, and it had been a very stressful day. “I, um, I went to run along the Dragon’s Back hike,” Sam answered, stuttering nervously. “Interesting. And why did you do that?” “Training. I run cross country.” “Who were you training with?” “I went by myself.” “Then how can you prove that you went there?” “I don’t think I can.” 46

“Did anyone know you were going?” “No, my parents are working late tonight.” “Well, if you don’t have a solid alibi, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you to the Central headquarters for further questioning.” “No! You can’t. My parents aren’t even here.” “We’ll call them,” she said. ~~~ Mr. and Mrs. Smith walked into a pawnshop on Kowloon Island, Hong Kong on Friday. They were English tourists, and this was the very last day of their vacation. Becky Smith loved unique items, so she loved shopping in second hand stores and pawnshops. That day, however, she was looking for something in particular. She wanted a “momento,” so that she could remember Hong Kong forever. After searching the store for about twenty minutes, she came across an exquisite bracelet. It was a classic silver, chain style, similar to that of Tiffany & Co., but with slightly smaller loops. Becky Smith loved the way it glistened on her wrist so much that she bought it even bother to read the inscription on the charm. She random person’s name. The total price of it was 225 deal, as the shopkeeper didn’t know how much the worth to some people.

immediately. She didn’t just assumed it was of a HKD, which was a great bracelet would soon be

Meanwhile, Detective Sui was questioning Sam again at the Police Headquarters. “So you left school at what time?” “4:30.” “But you did not hike until 6:30?” “I was busy until then.” “Busy doing what?” “Just…stuff, really.” “What sort of stuff?” “Normal stuff,” he said, his snappy attitude bursting through yet again. “Where did this ‘stuff’ take place?” “Causeway Bay.” “Where in Causeway Bay?” “Kind of near Times Square.” “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you were doing?” “Yes, I’m sure.” 47

“Okay, then. You’re not going to get released from jail just yet,” said Detective Sui. Then she left the room. ~~~ By Saturday, Anna Marie and Mr. Calypso had grown to be extremely worried. They were almost at the point of breaking down. Everywhere they looked, they thought of Alexandra. Anna Marie had tried to escape that dreadful feeling by avoiding school and talking to her friends, but really, she and Alexandra lived their lives together. They had done so many things together over the years that Anna Marie kept on having memories thrown in her face every time she turned around. It felt as though she was constantly being punched in the stomach. This caused her to be on the verge of tears all of the time. Anna Marie didn’t know Sam very well, as he did not attend her school. She did know, however, that Alexandra had pretty good judgment when it came to choosing people to be in her life, so she was trying not to conclude that Sam had something to do with Alexandra’s disappearance. Deep down, though, she knew that all signs seemed to point at him having some part in it. Mr. Calypso was handling the situation in a different way. He was very quiet and deep in thought all of the time. You could see new worry lines forming as he rubbed his forehead while the hours passed. He was deeply concerned about his daughter, but attempted to remain positive. The man was always thinking about different things that could lead them to finding Alexandra. It wasn’t much use, however, as the police had done all they could do to follow her steps. They even tried tracing her phone through a satellite. It pinpointed the phone to be near the harbor, so it was likely someone had tossed it into the sea to prevent tracking. There were no hints to her whereabouts in the salon, as she had most likely gotten into a taxi out front of the building. None of the buildings surrounding the salon had traces of her either. Also, Sam still wasn’t telling Detective Sui his exact location or what he was doing on the day Alexandra went missing. The police had missing people reports running on the news asking for information about her every half hour, but that was all they could do at that point. All of the people close to Alexandra were praying for a miracle. ~~~

At about one o’clock that afternoon, the Smiths were in the airport waiting for their plane. Becky Smith was admiring the bracelet on her wrist with child-like light green eyes for what seemed like the thousandth time since she got it. Just then, John Smith said, “Oh, how sad. A girl disappeared this week. She’s pretty, too. Poor thing. I hope she’s alright.” “Me too. Poor thing must be scared to death,” replied Mrs. Smith. She looked at the screen just in time to see a picture of Alexandra, and the words “If you have any information regarding Alexandra Calypso’s whereabouts, please call 55555566” flash onto the television screen. At that moment, the bracelet clasp came undone because she had been pinching the clasp while she thought about poor Alexandra. The bracelet slid into her lap, backside up. That was when she finally read the inscription: “Happy Birthday A.C. Dec. 15, 2007!” “John!” she exclaimed, as her petite frame leapt out of the blue plastic seat. “Yes, dear?” he replied, his strong voice taking on a surprised tone. “I wonder where my bracelet came from. You know, who the original owner was.” “Well, I’m not sure.” “Honey, I just read the inscription on the back. It has the initials A.C. on it, and the birthday mentioned on it is the same as Alexandra Calypso’s. You don’t think it has some sort of connection to her, do you?” she asked nervously. “Oh, my word. I’m not sure. It’s unlikely, though. I’m sure there are many other “A.C.’s” in Hong Kong.” “But what if it is hers and we don’t ever find out? I think we need to know, dear. I’m sorry about wasting the tickets, and hopefully they’ll give us a refund, but we simply must get out of here. We have to know if this bracelet belongs to her.” Shortly after this conversation took place, the Smith’s went to the security center in the airport, where they pushed to the front of the lines to the counter. There, they were instructed to call the hotline they had seen on TV if they really did want to investigate their assumptions further. When they called the number, it put the couple in touch with Detective Sui, who asked them to come to the Central Police Station, where she would be waiting with Anna Marie and Mr. Calypso. One hour later, the Smith’s were standing face-to-face with the detective, Mr. Calypso and Anna Marie. Becky showed the bracelet to them. Anna Marie 49

took in her breath, as she immediately recognized it. With watery eyes she told them that the bracelet was Alexandra’s. She had given it to her for her birthday the previous year. Detective Sui took control, and said they had to move soon. Obviously, whoever it was that had Alexandra had wanted to get rid of evidence quickly. She sent the bracelet away to be “finger-printed” by one of her colleagues. Next, she suggested they go to the pawnshop the Smiths had been to the day before. The shop was located in an old, run-down brick building in a narrow street, inhabited by local people. It was out of the eye of most tourists, as none of the attractions could be found close by. Inside, there was a large plastic counter containing all of the shop’s merchandise. The red walls had once been bright, but were now a hideous faded auburn. The floors were carpeted in emerald green, as evidence that the shopkeeper had tried to make it seem elegant at one point in time. The operator of the store, Chuck Kwong, a stout man of about sixty-five years of age, answered Detective Sui’s questions with alert dark eyes. Apparently, a man of Filipino descent called Miles Ricardo, a Hong Kong taxi driver, had sold the bracelet to him. Mr. Kwong had bought the bracelet from him on Thursday at about eight o’clock in the evening. He also informed the group that Ricardo was a frequent customer in the shop, and he lived just above it in apartment 8C. They thanked Mr. Kwong for the information, and walked out of the room, the smell of mothballs pungent in their nostrils. The group decided that the first thing they should do was search Ricardo’s apartment. Suddenly, Detective Sui’s phone rang. Her body became perfectly straight as she listened to the caller’s words. It was coming from someone breathing heavily informing her with a fake British accent that they had Alexandra with them at that moment. The man on the line gave her the address of the building in Causeway Bay he and Alexandra were in, and then the line went dead. She told the group that she needed to trace that call to double-check the information. She encouraged everyone to go home for the day and try to relax. Mr. Calypso offered to let the Smiths stay in his apartment, so they headed towards Admiralty. Detective Sui got onto a subway train, and Anna Marie pretended to get on a bus that was bound for Happy Valley.

Fifteen minutes later, she was standing outside of “City Pawn” once again. Anna Marie entered the building through the side entrance, and got into the rusty-looking lift, praying she would leave the building alive. She was willing to sacrifice herself to save Alexandra, though. That is, if Alexandra was alive. A loud “bing” sound filled Anna Marie’s ears as she stepped out of the lift. The shaking of it had scared her enough, and the loud sound did not help soothe her nerves. She breathed in the incense-filled air deeply, and then, with a trembling pale hand, knocked on the door of apartment 8C, secretly hoping she would die right there and not have to deal with her longing for Alexandra. She waited. There was no answer. She knocked again. Still, there was no answer. She turned the doorknob. The door was locked. Rather than break her leg in an attempt to smash the door in, she opted to do what people in horror movies do best: walk down the stairs into the dark basement with tears in her eyes, in search of the girl who had been like a sister to her. She opened the door to the basement. To her surprise, it wasn’t dark. The room was brightly lit. It almost reminded her of a surgery room in a hospital. There was an operating table towards the back and large wooden crates stacked everywhere around it. On one of the crates dirty, bloodstained operating tools sat on a rag. On another one, there were hammers, nails, large pliers and scissors. There was a smell of bleach in the air, as though someone had been trying to cover the smell of something else, or clean something up. When she turned to look to the right, she jumped and squealed with horror. Alexandra’s excessively pale, bruised and limp body was sitting in a chair, arms tied to a hook in the wall behind her. Judging from the way she was sitting up straight in her unconscious state, though, Anna Marie had a feeling she was still alive. Suddenly, a pair of deathly strong hands gripped her shoulders. Anna Marie turned her head around, and to her absolute horror, made eye contact with the black eyes she knew in her heart belonged to Miles Ricardo. He pushed her into the room, closing the door behind him. He pinned her against the wall and bent one of her arms back, instantly breaking it. She yelped in pain, but he kneed her in the stomach, forcing her to double over. He

pushed her onto the ground, but Anna Marie used the remainder of her strength and kicked Miles in the shin, forcing him to stumble backwards. Somehow, she was able to stand up, run forward and hit him in the head so hard it knocked him out cold onto the floor. Crying, she ran to the door, pulling her phone out of her bag, and called Detective Sui and explaining what had happened in a hurried voice. Then, she untied Alexandra’s hands, slid down the wall, sat beside her. She grabbed one hand to rub small, soothing circles on it while they waited in silence for the police to arrive and haul away the unconscious Miles Ricardo. ~~~ The day after these events took place, Detective Sui was able to ask Miles all of the questions she needed to. She found out that he was planning on selling Alexandra’s organs on the black market. Apparently, most of his income came from this “business.” He had a scheme where every time a young person got into his cab alone, he kidnapped, tortured and killed them, making a profit off of their organs. That is where the bleach smell in the room came from. Miles used the basement to kill his victims each time, and the bleach was used to clean up the mess. He also took one of their belongings to the pawnshop. This fact made the whole thing even more sick, as he got a good feeling knowing that a piece of his victims was still somewhere in the world, in someone’s house, without them knowing the terrible fate its previous handler suffered.

On Saturday, he had gone into the basement to kill Alexandra when he found Anna Marie standing in the doorway. Also, the mysterious call Detective Sui received the day before regarding the whereabouts of Alexandra had come from him. Apparently, he had seen the report about Alexandra on the news and attempted to throw the search parties off his track. Of course, his scheme didn’t work this time, as the item he had tried to get rid of that belonged to Alexandra ended up in the responsible hands of Becky Smith, who was determined to find out if the bracelet belonged to her. Miles’ plan would’ve worked if the Smiths hadn’t seen the inscription on the bracelet. This final confession put Miles Ricardo into jail. He was sentenced to a life in prison. ~~~ Sam Pattinson was now in jail. No, he did not have anything to do with Alexandra’s kidnapping, but he was involved in illegal drugs. Detective Sui discovered, with further investigation of his room in his family’s apartment, that he had been trafficking marijuana around his school. That was what he was doing on the afternoon Alexandra disappeared. To this day, Alexandra says that those three days were the worst of her life. During the time she was held captive, she was beaten and tortured. She had been certain that death was quickly approaching. Now, she says she thanks God everyday for the bravery her best friend showed on that terrible day. If it weren’t for Anna Marie’s deep love, it might have been too late.

Cross My Heart and Hope to Die Lorraine Ho He caressed the top of her head, and she leaned back against him. It was a twilight evening, and the two of them were strolling down the rocky path. He whispered that he had something to show her, and taking her hand, he led her to his secret grove. A rushing river separated the grove from a rocky path, as did several overgrown weeds. She laughed softly and pressed her hand against her heart. He was the perfect man. He murmured for her to close her eyes, and she did so, thinking that he had a surprise for her. A moment later, she felt something pressured against her skull. Her eyes flew open and she stared up in confusion at him. He smiled at her and told her that he loved her, and then he pulled the trigger. Her body was never found. When Katrina Marlette, a famous movie star, mysteriously disappeared, people said that it was such a terrible shame. She had been rich and beautiful, a young woman who had barely reached her thirties. The police suspected that perhaps others who possibly had nursed envy in their minds had kidnapped her for ransom, but that didn’t explain the lack of signs that a struggle had taken place in the area where she had disappeared. Hazel Parkinson didn’t trouble herself with these mysteries. She was beautiful, too, and people adored her as well. They compared her to Katrina sometimes, but that didn’t matter, since the previous star was already gone and had never returned. So why should she care? Hazel lived in the largest, oldest mansion on Brambleberry Street. It always smelled sweet in the house, since the bakery next door always had their oven on and baked their own breads. At a quarter to seven, the doorbell rang, and she hurried downstairs. “Coming!” she called. “Just a moment.” Hazel pulled open the front door and smiled at her fiancé. “Hey, Cliff,” she greeted him. “I was getting ready. You’re early, you know? What’s the big rush?” “Nothing much,” he said quietly. The setting sun cast shadows below his cheekbones. “I just decided to come early. That way I can pick you up.” “Is it far away?” Hazel asked. “Far enough for you to complain if we walked.” Cliff flashed her a grin. “Oh, alright. I’ll be ready soon. Why don’t you come in?” “That would be nice.” He walked in. The living room lights reflected off 55

his dark gold hair, and off his eyes, which were as grey as the sky after a storm. “Thanks.” “No problem.” Hazel hurried up the stairs. “Do you mind waiting?” “If you take a long time, yes,” Cliff answered playfully. He slouched onto her sofa. “I was kidding. Go ahead and take your time.” “Thanks,” Hazel replied gratefully, and she went into her bedroom. Quickly, she tied up her hair and pulled on a pair of jeans. Hazel also wore the shirt Cliff had given her once, to symbolize how she felt about him. He was lounging in her living room when she walked back downstairs. Cliff smiled up at her and replaced a framed picture of them together back onto the shelf he had taken it from. “You ready?” “Yup.” Hazel twirled in front of him. “How do I look?” “Great, as usual,” Cliff declared. He caught her in his arms as she twirled towards him and deftly caught hold of her hand. “Now we need to go on our date, yes?” Hazel smiled contentedly and nodded. The two of them headed to his car, which was parked outside in front of her garden. Cliff held the car door open for her as she climbed inside the vehicle. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Hazel teased him. She was curious, and he knew it. Cliff smiled at her patiently and ruffled her light brown hair. “Soon, my princess,” he said, using his nickname for her. Hazel reached forward towards the car’s radio and switched it on. “Do you mind?” she asked, and was satisfied when he shook his head. “It has been one year since the disappearing of Katrina Marlette, and we shall have a moment of silence to remember this great star that shone to us through the darkness,” the radio crackled. Hazel sniffed. “Humph. Honestly, you’d think they’d have forgotten that by now. She wasn’t such a special woman!” “Of course,” murmured Cliff, “unlike you, my darling.” “Mm.” Hazel switched off the radio and looked out the window distractedly. As though he sensed her irritation, Cliff took one hand off the steering wheel and patted her arm, and she smiled at him, grateful for the fact that he would try to make her smile. “Are we there yet?” she asked him. “Soon,” Cliff laughed. “You’re so impatient.” “Yeah, well.” Hazel punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Sitting too still for too long a time gives me a sore bottom.” “Right. We’re nearly there.” 56

“Really?” Hazel squinted through the car’s window. In the quickly fading light, she could barely make out anything. A few dark shapes were clear, but nothing else. She frowned. “Come with me.” Cliff stopped the car. Its tires scrunched on the gravelly path. Hazel got out of the car and looked around apprehensively. It was already twilight, nearly dusk. She huddled close to him and he smiled reassuringly down at her. “It’s okay,” he assured her. He held out his hand. “Come with me,” he repeated. “Um, is it safe?” Hazel felt the ground through the thin sole of her sneakers. It seemed rather rocky, and she was afraid that she would trip and fall. “Very safe.” Cliff grasped her hand and led her on. Slowly, Hazel worked up the courage to walk a little faster, and Cliff seemed amused that she jumped at every slight noise. “You know, I had a beautiful girlfriend before,” Cliff said conversationally. Hazel scowled. If he was trying to make her jealous… “But not as beautiful as you.” He gave her a beguiling smile. She laughed, trying to cover up her discomfort. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, but he could still make her feel uneasy sometimes. Cliff drew her close and whispered into her ear, “I have a secret grove here, you know. Would you like to come and see?” “Perhaps. Where is it?” “Close by.” Cliff winked at her. “Sure,” Hazel chuckled. He looked so mischievous she couldn’t help but swat at his head. He ducked easily and swung her in front of him. “It’s over that creek,” he said, pointing. “Where?” Hazel was bewildered. Cliff seemed to be pointing at a clump of overgrown weeds. “I’m not entirely sure I know where you’re going, sweet. What are you pointing at?” “It’s hidden.” Cliff drew the weeds apart, exposing a river. “Oh.” Hazel smiled. It seemed like they were playing hide-and-seek, showing each other where the best hiding places were. “Here…” Cliff stepped over the water and helped her across. “Thanks.” Hazel said softly. He really was the most perfect boyfriend. “No problem.” He looked around, as if making sure they were alone. “It’s so beautiful here.” 57

And it was. Fireflies zoomed back and forth above the green grass, and dragonflies flew near the water of the river. A gentle breeze swept through the weeds and brought the sweet smelling scent of dried dew to her nose. Hazel breathed in deeply and sighed in contentment. “This place is wonderful, Cliff.” she said warmly. He laughed and put his hands on her shoulders. “Isn’t it, though?” “Much like you.” Hazel added, her heart beating fast. Cliff’s smile wavered slightly, as though he were in a dilemma. “Thanks, darling.” “Sweet of you to bring me here.” Hazel told him. “Close your eyes.” he whispered to her, his voice low and quiet. “Now, sweet? Whatever for?” Hazel asked. “It’s a surprise,” Cliff breathed, and he cupped her cheek in his hand. “Come on, listen to me.” “Fine, fine.” Hazel closed her eyes, slightly annoyed. “It had better be good.” “It’s great,” Cliff replied. “I promise.” “You promise? Really?” Hazel’s lips curved up into a smile. His hands slipped from her shoulders for a moment, and Hazel felt something cold against her temples. She opened her eyes and stared up at him, baffled. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” Cliff’s smile was like a delighted child’s. The birds in the trees scattered into the air as a single gunshot rang through the grove.

“Who’re you?” snapped the police officer gruffly. “Cliff,” gasped the young man. He was handsome and youthful, his hair a dark gold, and his forehead was creased with worry and desperation. “My girlfriend…I found her in a grove, and she was dead!” “She was dead?” The officer stood up abruptly. “This is shocking news.” After questions were asked and several sheets of tissue were used, Cliff left for his home with two other officers accompanying him. “He’s distraught,” Officer Ken said. “He could not have been the murderer.” “Obviously, he said he was not in the grove. He has not been under arrest before. I highly doubt that he possess any illegal things, much less a gun.” Officer Field stroked his mustache. “Sirs!” A young secretary strode into the room, out of breath. “Miss Carla? What is it?” 59

“I was investigating Katrina Marlette’s murder. They say that her boyfriend took her out to a secret grove before she disappeared. Apparently, he was rejected by a director before and vowed to kill all that were hired by that specific director.” Miss Carla slammed down an armload of data files into Officer Ken’s arms. “Any description of this boyfriend?” Officer Field demanded. “Well, yes.” Carla took up one of the files and rifled through it. “High cheekbones, youthful face, golden hair…” Officer Ken stared at her in horror, while Officer Field’s stomach seemed to be sinking. “Are you sure about this?” Field asked weakly. “Of course!” Miss Carla cried. “Do you take me for a fool?” At that moment, yells came from outside. The two officers and the secretary sprinted towards the door and yanked it open. The officers who were supposed to be accompanying Cliff back to his house were lying on the ground, blood soaking rapidly through their shirts. Miss Carla gave a little gasp. Officer Field shook his head and his mustache swayed. Only Officer Ken looked beyond the horrible sight and spotted a dark figure heading out into the dark. The moonlight glinted golden off his hair, and he looked strangely familiar…

I did it and I would do it again Georgie Beale Did I really just kill… some people say I am insane. But no, I don’t think I am. I have never murdered before, was it even murder that I just committed? Because of anger, anger can come in different expressions, so can other emotions like annoyance and intolerance. It was hatred, but no one knew I hated him. This murder was so subtle; no one could even suspect it. I don’t care what his family had to go through after his death but they will manage, as every one manages to live a life. Just because he annoyed me, does not mean I am insane. I will never divulge this murder to anyone. My neighbourhood wouldn’t care. All they care about is getting the latest clothes and to make sure that their children were eating the right foods and hanging with the right kind of people. They were high class and even though I was rich, I was not. I, Norman Glue, live alone in a big mansion. I have no family, no friends, no social life and have nothing to do with anyone else. Just because I have money does not mean I am happy. I spend my days thinking about the life I could have and dreaming while sitting on my rocking chair out on the balcony drinking my scotch in my dressing gown from 6am until sunset. I am known as the scary old man with hair coming out of his moles sitting on the deck. I live a boring life, there’s nothing interesting about me. You could ask why I don’t use my money, but why when there is nothing to spend it on or someone to spend it with. I have no family or a true love. I see all the happy couples and families but the more I see them then the more depressed I get. Before this murder, I sort of killed before. My sister and I were in a fire, I’ve never gotten over it. We were close, very close. I should have saved her. But no, I was the selfish person I am and I ran out of the burning down house. In the movies you see everyone saving their loved ones, but you think about it, if you were in a fire, would you have saved your loved one automatically, or run? It might sound odd but that’s how it went and I can’t take it back.

Ever since she died I could have been living the life I was dreaming about, but I thought that there was no point. Instead, I let this creature next door annoy the crap out of me. When something starts to agitate you, you can’t just let it go away. It stays with you and everything he does, it makes my ears ring. Every single thing that he does pisses me off. But how, how can something so innocent drive me crazy. Don’t ask me, like I said, people must think I am insane. He went out to party with his bitches every night (yes, not bitch but bitches). He would wake up too early every morning, yet others in the neighbourhood didn’t. He ate like a slob, he left his scraps everywhere and I always saw him salivating and slobbering. He was always lurking outside my house pacing up and down. He stood too close to me; everyone needs his or her own space right? He took up my personal space and his breath stank, so did his coat, it smelt like rotten apricots. He did not make a lot of noise but when he did, he barked at me. He looked intensely at me as if to say, “I need your company, I am lonely, come with me to sit or to go for a walk”. He made me think his loneliness was my loneliness. After all these demands of my attention like a child, I choose to be alone. He nagged me, silently pleading with his eyes like some needy hobo. These habits got more and more annoying day after day, week after week, month after month. I said to my doctor, “Am I crazy to react like this?” She just says, “Everyone is a little crazy Norman!” “But I don’t know-I’ve been alone for so long, I don’t know what is normal?” I said. “You’re normal Norman,” She said. But I didn’t believe her because it didn’t even sound right. I guess, some would say he had done no harm. I shouted out to him “What do you want from me, huh! Get a life”, He just stared and walked off. It’s strange to think that the other neighbours don’t recognize he causes trouble, to some. Others aren’t affected, by some I mean myself and I can’t understand why.

I couldn’t help but constantly wonder what to do with this issue of mine. I could not just make this go away so I had to do something. But what, a murder… no, too harsh. Just get rid of him. Then again, how? The only thing was to murder, to get him out of my life. Maybe then I could live the life I dreamt of. This murder had to have deep planning so no one would connect it to me. I never thought I would ever, ever do this. Maybe I was insane. I would spend all my days just looking at him and I always tried to stop but when I did some little twitch in my head would make me start again, and again. Once I committed then there would be no going back. That was fine with me because it would be worth it. I had to plan this murder, otherwise I may leave clues. This murder will leave NO clues what so ever. I thought to myself “He’s gonna go down, down, down and there is nothing stopping me, LETS DO THIS!” To make this all work I set out the order of events. I had planned to watch him 24/7 and then when he went out I would secretly go and put poison in his dinner. Wearing gloves of course every step of the way and using the back door to get into his house. That night would be the night he would die. The poison I was using was harsh and speedy. I bought it from a drug dealer who was too high to even count the money I gave him. The poison was so strong that he would die in les than 15 minutes. The moment came when I would enter his territory and leave mine. I was sweating with excitement and twiddling my thumbs with an evil stare in my eye. My emotions were out of control, they made me sweat, I had a rash and my head was thinking so far ahead of itself that I felt dizzy. I may have drunk too much that day and was a bit tipsy, as I usually was anyway. I walked next door. As I slowly, quietly and secretly paced across the fresh mown grass. I put the poison powder into his food, and then heard something. I made my finishing touches and ran. I got home, went out onto the deck and watched. I saw a silhouette in the window behind the curtain, it was him. He was home; all that time while his family was out. Then… he ate his food, HE ATE IT GOD DAMN IT! Under my breath I said “yes.” I watched every millisecond of his disgusting eating. It was the happiest moment of my life.

I looked down to take a gulp of my scotch as relief. When I looked up the silhouette was gone, GONE. I sat there not being able to lift a finger; I had to act normal like I didn’t do anything. The family car pulled into the driveway, and then one minute later I heard a scream. OOPS, must have happened already. Shame. I heard the daughter shriek, “Mum, Mum Rex is dead!” “Our dog is dead, poor puppy!” She sulked. “Yeah, Poooor Puppy” I mumbled to myself – and I took another sip.

Marriage: A Motive For Murder Tessa Hughes “Do you, Hector Abrothe, take Carmen, in sickness and in health, to be your wife, until death do you part?” “I do.” “And do you, Carmen Sanriche, take Hector, in sickness and in health, to be your husband, until death do you part?” “I do.” “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Carmen returned from her flashback to present day. Now, five years later, she was once again staring at Hector. Well, his corpse anyway. “Mrs. Sanriche Abrothe, do you have any idea what happened here?” Detective Cyrus Wilson asked. “ Absolutely none,” Carmen Sanriche Abrothe responded through a veil of tears. “I merely came home this morning, and found him dead!” “Well this is quite peculiar,” Detective Cyrus Wilson’s partner, Austin McClark, said. “Indeed,” responded Detective Cyrus. “Mrs. Abrothe, would it be alright if we had a look around?” “Of course! Please let me know what I can do to help. I want my husband’s killer brought to justice.” “They’ll start the autopsy as soon as possible, and we’ll have the results soon. We’ll let you know as soon as we do,” Detective Austin said. “Oh, thank you, detectives. This is simply too much. If you’ll excuse me, I need a rest.” “Of course,” both detectives responded in unison. A few hours earlier, Carmen Sanriche Abrothe had returned home from her visit to the country in Westchester, and upon going into her manor on the hillside, she sensed something was off. She walked into her and Hector’s private lounge, and found her husband was dead on the floor. After quickly opening the door and windows to their full extent, she had phoned nine-oneone to report a homicide. Now, she sat in an armchair, and watched, in disbelief, as her husband was hauled off in a body bag. She shut her eyes for a few brief moments, and after deciding that the lounge was too busy for her to rest, she hurried upstairs to the bedroom she shared with Hector in their fourstory manor. Everywhere she turned, left and right, there were police officers, dusting for fingerprints, checking for clues, taking photographs. When she 67

finally made it past all of them, and got to the privacy of her quiet bedroom, she barely had time to lie down on the bed before exhaustion claimed her. “Do we have anything on the autopsy?” Detective Austin McClark asked the forensic pathologist, Mckayla Van Der Woodsen. “We have the time and cause of death.” “And?” “He died approximately eight hours before you brought him to me. So that puts it around 2 A.M.” “I see. And the cause?” “Consummation of excessive amounts of Obiproven, rats poison. It comes in powder form, and his stomach contents show that approximately 6 grams were consumed, and that’s only in one mouthful. Since it was such a large amount, death would have occurred approximately thirty seconds after he consumed it. Whoever murdered him wanted to get the job done quick.” “Wait, he ate rat poison? So we could be looking at a suicide now?” “Actually, that’s what I assumed at first as well. However, several signs around the victim’s body indicate that he went into shock just before the Obiproven shut down his system. The shock isn’t a side-effect of Obiproven; it’s meant to shut down the system quietly,” Mckayla explained, using wild hand gestures as she talked. “If the victim were committing suicide, he would have known he was about to die, and not have gone into shock. Unless he forgot he was poisoning himself.” “So someone else poisoned him. But how would they get him to consume rat poison?” “There are no signs of force used on the body, but some studies I ran show that the Obiproven was mixed with water.” “Now we’re talking. Someone tricked this man into consuming rat poison, to murder him.” “Exactly.” “Looks like it’s back to the crime scene.” After hopping into his car approximately an hour ago, Detective Cyrus was back on the crime scene. He had been here for almost forty minutes now, and hadn’t said a word to anybody. “Austin, can you send this back to the lab? I want an analysis of the contents and scans for fingerprints. Thanks.” Cyrus Wilson held out the glass Hector Abrothe had been drinking from to his partner. Cyrus was frustrated. The entire room had been dusted for fingerprints, doors and windows included, and only two sets of prints had been found. Most

likely Mr. and Mrs. Abrothe’s. After all, they were the only two people that lived in the house. They didn’t even have a maid, a butler, a chef, or a chauffeur. Quite unusual for a couple that lived in a manor, and obviously had money to spare. But no, it was just the two of them. Cyrus though for a moment, then he realized that this made Mrs. Abrothe the prime suspect, and decided to try asking her about the room. “So Mrs. Abrothe, what can you tell me about this room?” Detective Cyrus asked. “Well, it belonged to Hector and I. It was our private lounge. It also contains the safe, so the room is locked off. Only Hector and I have the keys.” Only two people have access to the room, and one of them is dead, Cyrus thought to himself. How curious. He decided to go back to the office, and leave the crime scene to Austin. After reviewing the paperwork, it hit him. Hector Abrothe was the founder of a billion pound company. Several billion pounds to be precise. And just six months ago, Mrs. Abrothe had insured her husband’s life, for three hundred million pounds. Cyrus whistled to himself. That was a lot of money. Now that Hector was dead, Mrs. Abrothe had claimed her insurance, and was now the head of his company. Which made her one obscenely rich widow. Cyrus’ phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. He checked the caller ID. It was Austin. “Austin, what have you found?” “Cyrus, there are large quantities of rat poison in the cellar, approximately 100 boxes. It seems to have come from a bulk package.” “So? It’s a manor, there’s bound to be plenty of rats.” “It’s the same brand Hector was poisoned with, Obiproven. And it appears that there are 2 boxes missing from the bulk package.” “Good work. I’m on my way.” Whoever poisoned Hector must have had some kind of prior knowledge of the interior of the manor, Austin thought to himself. But only Mr. and Mrs. Abrothe had ever lived here. “Austin!” “What is it Cyrus?” “The cup that contained the poison, it’s the same as twenty others in the kitchen. Custom-made, from Italy. There are literally no other cups like them in the world.” So whoever poisoned Hector definitely had prior knowledge of the interior of the house, Austin mused. Things were starting to come together. “Cyrus, do we have results from the cup containing the poison yet?”

“I’ll call Mckayla.” After a quick phone call, Cyrus told Austin that Mckayla wanted them back at the lab immediately. In less than two minutes, they were on their way. “So, Mckayla, what have you got for us?” Mckayla pulled out a necklace, but the clasp was broken. “This was found inside the victim’s shirt, and the serial number engraved onto the pendant confirms that is belongs to Mrs. Abrothe. She bought it from an auction eighteen months ago,” Mckayla explained. “The clasp is broken, almost completely snapped off. Since it’s made of a mixture of gold and a hardening substance, known as Sterling, someone must’ve pulled it pretty hard for it to break like this.” “What does this have to do with the victim?” Detective Cyrus wondered aloud. “It was found inside his shirt pocket. And we found a thumbprint on the pendant, and many partial prints belonging to Hector Abrothe all around the pendant. However, no other prints were found, other than Carmen Sanriche Abrothe’s. Pulling at the pendant would have been the only way to break the clasp like this,” Mckayla answered. “It’s close, but it still doesn’t place Carmen at the crime scene,” Austin declared. “They could’ve had a fight earlier.” Just then, a computer beeped, and the printer spat out a page. “What’s that?” Cyrus queried. “The fingerprints and contents results from the cup containing the poison,” Mckayla responded. They rushed over to the printer, and after a few silent minutes of reading the results, the penny dropped. “Just a minute!” Carmen Sanriche Abrothe said as she heard someone knocking on the main door the next morning. She quickly ran down the stairs from her bedroom, and opened up her main door. “Oh! Detectives! What’s going on? How may I help you?” “We’re here to inform you that the case has been solved,” Detective Cyrus answered frostily. “Excellent!” “Indeed. Carmen Sanriche Abrothe, you’re under arrest for the premeditated murder of Hector Abrothe,” said Detective Austin. “But that’s preposterous! I didn’t murder Hector!” “The evidence doesn’t lie,” Detective Cyrus replied.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be held against you in court. Your trial is tomorrow. Tonight, you’ll be sleeping in a cell,” Detective Austin added. “But...but...” The detectives handcuffed her, and led her to the back of the police car. Once they arrived at the prison, her mug shot was taken, her records were created, and she used her one phone call to call her lawyer to represent her in court the next day. “Your honor,” the Detective’s lawyer, Keith Bebbington, said, “I present to you the evidence that proves Carmen Sanriche Abrothe is, in fact, the one who murdered Hector Abrothe.” “Proceed,” the Judge said in a seemingly emotionless voice. “Exhibit A, the room in which Hector was murdered in is always locked, and Carmen is the only other person that has the key,” Keith Bebbington began. “Continue,” the Judge replied. “Exhibit B, the motive for murder is money. Carmen Sanriche Abrothe has just claimed a 300 million pound insurance claim on Hector Abrothe’s life, and 9.3 billion pounds from his company, which she is now head of.” The Judge tilted her head, her face appeared to be emotionless, but in her eyes, one could see the fiery determination that had earned the Judge her prestigious title. “Exhibit C, 98 boxes of Obiproven, the rat poison Hector Abrothe was poisoned with was found in the cellar in a bulk package that originally contained 100 boxes. Two boxes contain 120 grams of Obiproven powder, which is the same amount that was found in Hector Abrothe’s stomach contents and in the glass that contained the poison Hector Abrothe consumed.” At the front, on the right-hand side of the Judge, Carmen Sanriche Abrothe shook her head. This is ridiculous, she thought to herself. Absolutely ludicrous! “Exhibit D,” Keith Bebbington continued. “The cup containing the poison is the same as twenty others in the kitchen. The cups are all custom-made from Italy. This and exhibit C show that the murderer must have had prior knowledge of the interior of the Abrothe Manor. However, only Carmen and Hector Abrothe have ever lived in the manor. Nor do they have a maid, chef, butler or chauffeur.” “Stop,” the Judge interrupted. “How can you be certain Hector Abrothe did not commit suicide?” Carmen Sanriche Abrothe gasped. Hector, commit suicide? Impossible, she thought.

“Your honor, the Detectives also considered this. However, the forensic pathologist who conducted the autopsy has confirmed that due to several indications around the body of the victim show that he went into shock just before the Obiproven shut down his system. Shock is not a side effect of Obiproven, and unless Hector Abrothe forgot he was poisoning himself, a suicide would not have induced shock. No, Hector Abrothe felt the poison killing him, and went into shock out of pure surprise,” Keith Bebbington answered expertly. “I see. Continue,” the Judge replied. “Exhibit E, Carmen Sanriche Abrothe’s necklace was found inside the shirt pocket of the victim, the clasp was almost completely snapped off, which shows that excessive force was used. A thumbprint was also found on the pendant, and many partial prints belonging to Hector Abrothe all around the pendant. However, no other prints were found, other than Carmen Sanriche Abrothe’s. Pulling at the pendant would have been the only way to break the clasp in the manner shown.” “And finally, your honor, Exhibit F,” Keith Bebbington began. The Judge’s eyes grew more animated. This was it: the ace in the hole. “The evidence that puts Carmen Sanriche Abrothe at the scene of the crime, during the time in which it happened.” Keith paused. There was anxiety building in him. Would this be enough to put Carmen behind bars? he wondered. “Continue,” the Judge said. Keith took a deep breath, and began once more. “While all the other glasses in the kitchen were completely clean of all except dust, Carmen Sanriche Abrothe’s fingerprints were found on the cup that contained the poison. There are only two reasons her fingerprints would be on that one, specific cup. The first is that she shared Hector Abrothe’s drink. This is unlikely, as she herself would also be dead. The second is that she handed the glass to Hector.” The courtroom was silent. Even the typist, whose fingers had been typing furiously since the trial had begun, making loud clicking noises that echoed through the courtroom, was silent. All heads turned to Carmen, and despite the fact that they now had her for murder, she seemed quite calm. She looked at her lawyer, who then decided it would be a good time to display the evidence that proved her innocent. “Your honor, If I may,” Carmen’s lawyer, Dave Reaves, began. “Proceed.”

“The forensic pathologist declared that Hector Abrothe was killed at approximately 2 A.M. on Saturday morning, March 20th, 1996. However, my client, Carmen Sanriche Abrothe, was in Westchester at that time, visiting the country. I wish to present the evidence to prove it.” “Proceed,” the Judge repeated, she was quite interested to see how Carmen expected to get away with this. “Exhibit A, the hotel records show that Mrs. Carmen Sanriche Abrothe checked in to the Westchester Grande Hotel at 6:18 P.M. on Thursday, March 18th, 1996, two days before Hector Abrothe was poisoned. They also then show that she checked out at 8:48 A.M., Saturday, March 20th, approximately 7 hours after Hector was poisoned.” Detective Cyrus rose to object, quite ready to say the records were fake. “Don’t do anything rash, Cyrus,” Detective Austin whispered as he yanked him back down. “Exhibit B,” Dave Reaves continued. “The security camera tapes show the time and date Mrs. Carmen Sanriche Abrothe checked in correspond exactly to the time and date of the hotel records. They also show that it is indeed Mrs. Abrothe, and not an imposter.” “Exhibit C, the security camera tapes at Abrothe Manor show Mrs. Carmen Sanriche Abrothe leave at 5:14 P.M., Thursday, March 18th, and not return until 9:52 A.M., Saturday, March 20th.” Dave Reaves paused, and looked around the courtroom to make sure he had everyone’s full attention. Once he was certain that he did, he continued. “Your honor, Mrs. Carmen Sanriche Abrothe cannot possibly be the murderer if evidence proves that the was away from the manor during the time of the murder.” The Judge looked around the courtroom, and asked in what seemed to be an emotionless, monotone voice, but with just a hint of apprehension under the surface, “What does the court find Carmen Sanriche Abrothe?” “Innocent!” said the jury. “Innocent,” the Judge said, as she banged her gavel. “Case closed.” As the members of the jury filed out one by one, the detectives were dumbfounded. Detective Cyrus was standing up with his jaw hanging open. Detective Austin, however, preferred to keep a more professional image. “Cyrus, close your mouth!” he hissed. “I’m sorry Austin, it’s just – she...she...she....she’s innocent?!” Cyrus said in disbelief. “I know, I know, I’m shocked as well.” “It’s not possible! How Austin? How?!”

“I’m not sure, but Cyrus, if it wasn’t her, who was it?” “It sure beats me, there are no other clues! They all pointed to her!” Detective Austin sighed. This case was just going to be something else to add on to his list of things that kept him up at night.

Carmen Sanriche Abrothe mailed the letter with a devious smile. She only wished that she could see the look on the detective’s faces once they read it.

Locker 333 Emily Tang It was a brand new September morning. The circled day on the calendar has finally arrived. With a quick wave of goodbye, Kate rushed out the door onto the peaceful street. It had been exactly ten days since Kate first moved in, and exactly 10 days since Kate started the countdown to the start of school. Her sapphire eyes twinkled as she looked ahead. Her dirty blonde hair rippled behind her while she ran towards the school. Through the entrance, and into the office. Behind the desk sat a stern lady, bearing the nametag: “Mrs. Lester.” “You are Katie Smith, I presume?” Mrs. Lester asked without taking her eyes off the screen of the computer. “Y-yes,” stuttered Kate, surprised at such a gentle voice from a lady so stern looking. “Well, your locker number is 333. Go down the hall and make a right turn. Here’s your timetable.” That was all she said before she went back to her typing. ”Y-yes, thank you,” Kate stammered again as she rushed out to grab the timetable and slowly began to head towards her locker. “Turn right…ah, here it is,” Kate muttered as she looked right. She found a brand new spotless locker. Kate gave a little smile and thought about how lucky she was. All the other lockers were completely messed up. The doors were falling apart, rubbish feel out of them. But the trash part was probably just because the owner was messy. Kate walked towards her locker, and reached out. The door squeaked loudly as she proceeded to put her possessions inside the locker. Kate stared at the locker’s rusty wall, which was full of scribbles, giving it a creepy vibe. At the exact moment, the bell rang, signaling class. Not having much time to examine her locker, Kate checked her timetable and ran off to English. The classroom was packed when Kate entered, girly girls gossiping and the football team throwing footballs across the room. “All right, all right students. Settle down.” Kate hurried to grab a seat as the teacher came in. Ms. Rivera was in her mid-twenties and had a personality that made people like her. Her hazel eyes shined as she looked across the classroom. Her hair was the color of creamy dark chocolate and her smile was flawless. “Now, we have a new student with us today,” Ms. Rivera said, and all the students looked around. Slowly, all eyes landed on the back of the classroom. “Kate, would you mind giving us a introduction of yourself?”

Here it comes, the moment that will decide my place in the school. If I mess up, I’ll make a fool of myself and I’ll be the gossip of the whole school! Kate hated it when she had to introduce herself. She had messed up her last few “introductions” at previous schools. “Um…hi, everyone. I’m Kate.” Kate’s hands began to sweat as she felt everyone’s stares on her. For a few seconds, Kate wished she could just melt into the ground. “Kate’s new around here. So I hope you guys will help Kate get around the school.” Ms. Rivera smiled as she nudged Kate back into her seat. As soon she sat down and felt the support of the chair under her, Kate let go of the breath she had been holding and began to listen as the class started. Kate felt a nudge at her shoulder. She turned around to find a girl with bright red hair smiling at her. “Hey, I’m Chelsea, how’re you doing?” “Quite good, thanks.” Kate was thrilled by the fact that Chelsea was talking to her. Chelsea seemed like a really nice girl, and was gorgeous. “Well you were a bit nervous up there…” Kate frowned and Chelsea quickly added, “No worries, everybody was nervous on the first day. But you are the first new student in a long time.” ”Really? How long, exactly?” “Mm…3 years?” Kate raised an eyebrow. That would explain all the weird glances… Kate was pulled out of her thoughts when Chelsea asked, “Anyway I heard that you got locker 333?” “Yep. But how did you know? Well, I suppose it’s the only new-looking locker around here, but you have no idea what’s inside it! Don’t the previous owners clean their lockers?” “Yea, they usually do. But that locker hasn’t been use since…well, forever! There’s even a crazy rumor circling around it!” As Kate leaned in to listen, her eyes widened as Chelsea went on. Kate wasn’t a big fan of ghost stories. Even if the scribbles in the locker proved that the rumor might not just be a rumor. But never having much belief in stories without facts, Kate threw the thoughts to the back of her mind. Few Months Later “Ugh, can’t we just tell Mrs. Lester to switch lockers? There must be some unused locker somewhere in the school! I mean, come on, cleaning a locker on Saturday, when we should be going out?”

“Come on, Chelsea, you can’t expect me to use such a messy locker for the rest of the school year. Every time I open my locker and see those scribbles, I get the shivers. Anyway, it’s not like we can go out anyway. The snow is like ten feet deep out there!” With a groan Chelsea picked herself off the floor and unwillingly began helping Kate erase the scribbles. The inside of the locker looked brighter than before, now that Kate had her possession inside. But the smudged scribbles still gave the locker a creepy vibe. As Chelsea cleared out Kate’s stuff she noticed writing she had never noticed before. “Hey Kate, check it out! There’s some writing here. ‘Down the hall, in the center of all’…what the heck is that…” “NO way, I’ve been here for months, and I never noticed it was there! Wait, do you think it’s recent?” “Well, it could be possible. I mean, come on! I’ve been at your locker loads of times, and I have never seen that writing. And trust me, I know your locker more than you do.” “Yea, yea, whatever!” Kate gave Chelsea a friendly punch, as she got closer to examine the writing. “’Down the hall, in the center of all’…well, if you go down the hall, all you get are classrooms and lockers,” Chelsea muttered “Wait, maybe it meant Jack’s locker! It’s in the center of the lockers down the hall!” Kate shouted excitedly. “You counted the lockers? Anyway, if Barfy Jack really was the person that wrote the sentence, WHY would he do it? I mean, if he wanted something he could just come over…anyway, we’ve done the best we can. The writings are barely visible now. Come on, let’s get out of here.” With a bang, Kate slammed her locker shut and followed Chelsea out. Wednesday As the piercing sound of the bell sounded, the whole class shot out of the classroom. Kate began making her way towards her locker on the other side of school. She turned around and saw Chelsea’s sad face, and remembered Chelsea’s mark she got back during English. “Hey, are you still upset about your English mark?” Chelsea stuck out her tongue, and told Kate to come closer just so she could flick Kate’s hair. “Ha, ha! Of course not! If I get upset about something like, then wouldn’t I be upset everyday? Anyway, what I’m worried about is that English project we got assigned this morning.” “You mean the essay we’re suppose to write?”

“Yep. Ms. Rivera did say we could work in groups. So how about we two work together and write the essay about ghosts?” “Yea, sure, and let’s find a ghost!” Kate said sarcastically. “Don’t forget we need to bring the whatever we wrote about,” she added matter-of-factly. “I know.” Chelsea rolled her eyes. “I was actually talking about your locker. Remember when we cleaned your locker a few months back? And the strange sentence that we discovered that time? Think about it, no one has your lock combination. So it could be a ghost, of the previous owner!” Chelsea let out an excited squeal. “You’re crazy, Chelsea! You know I don’t believe in that stuff. It’s just a prank!” “Come on, Katie! I really wanna do this! And since it is your locker, I can’t do this alone!” Chelsea begged. Kate rolled her eyes and finally gave in, “Fine, Fine. But call me Katie again, and you’ll have to find yourself a new essay topic AND partner. ” Thursday “Poor girl. Amelia, I think that was her name. She died at such a young age,” the janitor mumbled as he continued mopping the corridors of the school. Kate tried to press on about the matter, but the janitor refused to utter any more details about the previous owner of the locker. As the janitor cleaned his way towards the office, Chelsea pulled Kate inside an unoccupied classroom. After a few minutes of closed-door conversation, Kate and Chelsea start making their way towards the school office with a plan in mind. “2002…2001…1999…1998! Here it is!” Chelsea shrieked. “Keep it down! Do you want people to know we’re here?” Kate whispered loudly as she grabbed the yearbook from the drawer. “Fine! Ugh, it’ll take us a few years to find her here.” “Well, you should have thought about that when you had this stupid idea!” “Well, excuse me! Did you have any ideas?” Chelsea said, wounded by Kate’s words. “No, sorry. Anyway, here’s Jennie…Jason…Paul…Dan…oh, my gosh! Here it is! Amelia Stone! That should be her! Right? She was the only eleventh grader with the name Amelia.” “Yes! It’s her, I’m positive it’s her. Hey, check it out. Alice Rivera. That’s Ms. Rivera!” Chelsea stabbed at the photo.” Maybe we should ask her about Amelia. ” “Okay, lets put the yearbook back and get out of here!”

Friday Kate and Chelsea made their way towards Ms. Rivera’s classroom the very next day. The two girls found Ms. Rivera sitting at her desk, surrounded by piles of homework. When the English teacher noticed the girls at the entrance of her door, she waved them in with a smile. “Hey, Ms. Rivera, Chelsea and I was hoping we could ask you some question about the essay you assigned us.” Ms. Rivera told them to continue with a nod. “Thanks. So did you by chance know a girl by the name of Amelia Stone? She was in the same year as you in high school.” Ms. Rivera glanced up from her marking and stared at the two girls questioning her. Ms. Rivera released her grip on the red pen, and grabbed her mug and clutched it tight. She said in a calm voice, “Why do you ask?” “Because we’re doing our essay on Kate’s locker. We know that Amelia was the previous owner of the locker 333. And we wanted to know if you knew why she wasn’t at the school in Grade 12.” “Amelia? She…moved away when she was in Grade 12 to another school. “ “Oh, really? Well, did you know her? What was she like?” Chelsea pressed on. “I don’t know. I didn’t know her that well.” “Oh, okay. Thanks, Ms. Rivera,” the girls said, disappointed. When Kate and Chelsea closed the door behind them, Ms. Rivera let go of the mug she was clutching, revealing her blood-red hands. The bewildered English teacher rubbed her hands on her jeans to get rid of the sweat. She shakily took out an old photograph and stared at it so hard that her pupils were almost entirely white. In the photograph was a girl with dark chocolate color hair and hazel eyes hugging her friend with hair like shadow and piercing blue eyes. Behind them was the locker 333. As Kate closed the door behind the bewildered teacher, confusing thoughts circled inside her head. What does Ms. Rivera mean, she moved away! I thought the janitor said Amelia passed away? Or maybe Amelia died after she transferred to a new school. OMG, this is so confusing! “Kate. Kate! Where are you staring off to?” “Nothing. So, what did you think about Ms. Rivera? Do you think she was really telling the truth?”

“I don’t know…oh shoot! I think I left my notebook in there. I’m gonna go back inside.” Chelsea made her way back towards the classroom, and she opened the closed door. She noticed Ms. Rivera staring at a photograph. The teacher quickly noticed Chelsea and briskly stuffed the photograph back into the drawer. Chelsea took a glance at the photograph before it was stuffed back. She entered the classroom and picked up her notebook, and then said goodbye with a wave. She closed the door behind her and ran to Kate with what she saw. An hour later “I can’t believe Ms. Rivera would lie to us. She and Amelia were clearly good friends.” “Yea. Now that we have a picture of Amelia, everything should be easier to find. It’ll be huge news if somebody died in this town. Let’s check out the old newspapers.” Chelsea pulled Kate inside a room with stacks of newspapers dating back to a long time. The two girls were in the town library, searching for yet another clue. “Hey, wouldn’t it be bad if we wrote the essay? Then Ms. Rivera would know that we broke into her drawer!” “Stop worrying Kate. And start searching for the 1998 issues.” “You know, there’s gonna be hundreds of issues.” “Not really, since the newspaper only comes out weekly. Now start searching!” Kate and Chelsea started searching through the stacks of aged newspaper for some time, until Kate found a newspaper article about the disappearance of a family living near the edge of town. The article said that a family of three disappeared from town overnight. No trace of any of the family’s belongings was found. The only things left in the house was the furniture that was too big to pack. Rumors had it that the daughter of the family, whose name was Amelia, passed away before the family disappeared. The police was still investigating about the matter, and so far they had no clue about the Stone family’s current location. Under the article, there was a photo of the Stone family, and the exact same photo of Alice and Amelia that Ms. Rivera owned. “Amelia Stone and her best friend Alice Rivera. Huh! And I thought Ms. Rivera said she didn’t know Amelia well.” Chelsea raised her eyebrows and glance at Kate.

“Hey, isn’t that my gardener? The one that’s cutting the bush behind the Stone Family!” “Oh, my gosh! You’re right! Where does your gardener live, Kate? We’re gonna pay him a visit.” Chelsea pulled Kate up from the floor that was covered with newspapers, and half-dragged her out of the room. Kate and Chelsea arrived at the front porch of a bright wooden yellow house. The wood creaked beneath their feet as Kate raised her hand in preparation to knock. Before her hand even got closed to the door, shuffling footsteps could be heard on the other side of the door. The knob of the door turned slightly as a middle-aged man opened the door a crack. The man stared at the two strangers at the door until he finally recognized one of them. “Katie, my dear, what are you doing here? Come in, come in.” “Hi, Mr. Johnson. This is my friend, Chelsea, and we have a favor to ask of you.” Mr. Johnson led Kate and Chelsea into a room with black and white pictures hanging on the crackly wallpaper. Mr. Johnson told the two visitors to sit down on the couch as he went to get juice for them. As everybody got settled in, Kate and Chelsea began asking about the Stones. “Strange people the Stones were. Never really left the house. They’re really careful people, always had their curtains shut tight. I never really talked to the parents, except to ask the necessary things for my job. But they had a sweet girl. She would always wave at me and watched me cut the grass or water the plants. Then one weekend, I never saw her again. I thought she was out somewhere. But for the next whole week I saw no sign of her, so I decided to ask the parents what happen. And the next thing I knew, I was kicked out of the house. I heard from the Alexanders later on that Amelia had died. Lucy, who used to be a teacher at the school, said Amelia’s body was found beside her locker. The police said it might have been suicide. Anyway, you can’t tell other people about this, since it’s top secret. Even the town council covered the event up.” After thanking Mr. Johnson and stepping out onto the front porch, Kate and Chelsea stared at each other until the bush in the front yard rustled. The two girls quickly turned around, only to see a cat. “Ha, ha, getting scared by a cat, that’s a first. Now I’m really starting to think that the ghost of Amelia wrote the new writing. The recent writing has the same handwriting as the old ones. Do you think Amelia is haunting your locker?” “Chelsea, I’m warning you! No more of your nonsense. When I think about it the person who wrote the recent writing on my locker might have been

Ms. Rivera. She seems to be connected to Amelia’s death, if Amelia’s body was really found in the school. Then I’m sure that she would know something about it. Amelia is, or was, her best friend, after all.” It was a Monday afternoon. The classroom was deserted except for three people: Ms. Rivera, Kate, and Chelsea. They were going to travel back in history, back to the deepest and darkest part of Ms. Rivera’s memories. The sun shone through the window, lighting the side of the girls’ faces. All three took a deep breath, and Ms. Rivera began the story. “I was in Grade 11 back then. Amelia and I had been best friends since I could remember. Amelia was never what you called “ordinary”. She would sometimes just stare off somewhere for a long time. And she really liked poems and riddle, so she wrote a lot of her favorite ones in her locker. Well, it was in April when some girls decided to make her a target their bullying.” Ms. Rivera stammered a bit, but continued on. “Well, I was too scared to help her, so I stopped hanging out with her. Before I knew it, the bullying got so bad that Amelia was skipping school. And then one day, she never came to school.” Ms. Rivera stopped all together. She simply looked at her lap, and her long hair covered her face. But sniffing could be heard, every once in a while. After a while, she seemed to have calmed down and said in a quiet voice, “That’s when I heard that she…she had died!” Ms. Rivera broke down into tears in the end. Kate and Chelsea, after spending a long time calming down Ms. Rivera, left the classroom. They walked slowly along the lockers in the direction of the library to find themselves a new topic. ~~~ It wasn’t until later on, that Chelsea and I found out that there was more mystery behind what was told. It happened when we were… “Kate, it’s so stupid of you to trip on flat ground!” Chelsea joked as she half-carried Kate into the office. It was a brilliant August summer, and the birds were chirping outside. The sun was burning, but cool breeze blow from time to time. Kate was currently helping out in the school, while Chelsea attended summer school to help her poor marks. “Kate! What happened?” Mr. Hugo said as he passed Kate and Chelsea on his way back to the classroom. “Well, Nurse Susan is in the Caribbean, so all the First Aid materials we have here are bandages. They should be in Mrs. Lester’s desk. And Chelsea, go back in the classroom. Break’s almost over.”

The two girls began to make their way towards the office. By the time they arrived at the entrance, sweat was dripping from their eyebrows, and Kate’s wound were not looking good. Chelsea shoved her “baggage” down on to a chair as she walked around the front desk and began to fish around for the bandages. Chelsea felt her hand touch something flat and pulled it out. “Wow, this picture again,” Chelsea muttered as she stood up to show Kate her discovery. In her hand was a photograph with two best friends in front of the locker. I guess we’ll never know the truth about Amelia. Before we could find out about anything, Mrs. Lester moved to another school. One thing we know for sure was that “the center of all” turned out to be the office, and in the middle of the office sits the lonely desk with the nametag ‘Mrs. Lester’.

The Stone Heart Celine Chan Miserably, Jake was thinking back to the happy memories from just ten years ago. The highlights of his life were his days with his dream girl, Summer Sweet. In tenth grade, she was everything Jake could ask for. Summer was pretty, young, positive, and very social. “Oh, boy, how could anyone forget her smile? Her snow-white teeth, and rosy pink cheeks, it lightens up everyone’s day,” Jake whispered to his dull self. When Jake looked at Summer with his emerald eyes, he saw a slim, tanned, beautiful lady with side swept bangs, and long wavy brunette hair. He saw an angel. Now, he saw a demon, a devil from hell. “What happened to us? We were perfect. If only Mark wasn’t here….” His daydream ended as he drove up Park Lane Drive. His grip tightened, but the stone heart didn’t crumble in his hand. It remained as it was. Hard, cold, lifeless, still. It was Jake and Summer’s first anniversary gift from tenth grade. They each had half of a stone heart, carved by Mr. Smith, Summer’s family friend. The stone was carved precisely, with such detail. It had the words “Forever and Always ” on it. Jake still remembered their first anniversary. It had been the eleventh of February 1996. Now it wasn’t the same as before. Mark crushed Jake’s dreams. Mark and Summer both crushed Jake’s dreams. The house they were moving into was renovated just recently. It was painted in a light, mustard shade, which was Mark’s favorite. It was beautifully furnished, since Summer had a talent in art, creating unbelievably amazing artworks. The house, number 66 on the street had to be the most presentable, tidy and charming one out of the many.

It had wide, open glass windows, with white frames. Baby pink curtains, layered with lace curtains for contrast, finished the whole look of the house. It was vibrant, yet had a soft touch to it at the same time. It was gorgeous. Right after Jake finished observing the house in awe, Mark and Summer arrived, still in their wedding suit and gown. All the envy, all the jealousy started to build up in Jake again, but Jake remained still in the car. The headlights were turned off, and he didn’t make a sound. You could hear the laughter from Mark and Summer’s house; they loved each other so much, nothing could break them apart. “Honey, would you get my suitcase please?” “Sure. What should we have for dinner? “Anything you’d like Summer. Anything for you, my darling!” “Aw. I’ll always love you, Mark, forever and ever.” “I love you, too, Summer.” From being an outcast, Jake learned the true meaning of patience, and keeping everything to himself. He was both emotionally and physically prepared for keeping his jealousy and anxiety on the inside. His body was well built and toned, just like his twin brother Mark. The muscles were natural – a gift from mother nature. All of a sudden, Jake heard arguing, and smashes of glass plates and cups from the house. “What is wrong with you?! You … feelings for… after ten years? Unbelievable!” “Let … explain … Mark … don’t do this … I know … hurts you … stop … !” “Shut up … you unfaithful … I don’t … to see you … I … DIVORCE!” It was horrible, but Jake enjoyed it; he liked their pain. After a couple of minutes, Mark stomped out of the house, slamming the door into Summer’s face when she tried to explain, to try and follow him. Mark was furious. Jake heard the whole argument. Summer and Jake’s love was still there after all

those years. She had kept the other half of the stone heart in her pocket the whole time after they broke up. Mark rushed across the street, to the local grocery store in their town, Chan’s Deli. It sold all sorts of things, from fruits to meat to vegetables to desserts to take-out, which was what Mark and Summer needed. A break from their fight on the day of their wedding. Mark’s handsome figure attracted many women; all eyes were on him when he entered Chan’s Deli. He had nothing in mind but to buy dinner, go straight back to his house, and apologize to Summer. He shouldn’t have gotten mad at her. Mark knew his jealousy towards Jake wasn’t even supposed to be there. I mean, come on, who would even think about liking so awkward, so silent a man? Who would even consider an outcast? He struggled with choosing food for dinner, but just stuck with sushi, and two bottles of beer. Plain and simple, just the way Summer liked it. Struggling, Mark finally found his money, and paid at the cash register. Hurriedly, he then went straight back to his home across the street. “MARK, WHY ARE YOU BACK SO QUICK, WHERE’S OUR DINNER?” “Oh, there’s nothing good, so I guess we’ll be skipping dinner tonight.” His answer was cold, his words chilled Summer’s spine. “Are you okay?” And at that moment, he took out a pistol from his pocket, and aimed it without hesitation towards Summer’s heart. “HONEY, IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG? MARK, TAKE IT EASY.” “Why would I take it easy? There’s nothing left to say. You’ve broken my heart, and there’s no reason for you to live. I want you to die, AND I WANT THAT TO HAPPEN NOW.” Before Summer could answer him, a gunshot was fired from the pistol, and blood started sinking and soaking into the white bed sheets. She was dead.

A few months later, after going through all the police investigations, court, and intense questioning from in the police station, Mark was sent to jail for murder. He sat in his jail cell, so lifeless, without a single emotion on his face. Mark had the same thought running over and over again in his mind: God, I’m not supposed to be here. My future is ruined. In the soundless night, on November 2nd, 2006, a bullet shot right through a gun, straight into Summer’s beating heart. The murderer walked away, with a evil grin on his face. He took his mask off, and revealed the horrible side hidden within him. In his hand was a stone heart, with the words “Forever and Always” carved on it.

Hardboiled A Short Autobiography by Toby Hung TO GET TO BELLE PLAINE, you must take the State Highway 25 from Big Lake and head southeast, leaving the town infamous for a lamentable massacre that occurred decades ago. Once the crimson sign with the words “West Main Street” in capital letters printed on it is visible, turn right and the Belle Plaine Hospital will be standing right in front of you. And there, my dear reader, is where your fellow narrator is at the moment, enjoying her pleasant stay while being diagnosed with lung cancer. I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t really stupefied when the doctor told me about it. I’ve been smoking cigars ever since I was an adolescent. All detectives puffed. But other than that, I didn’t have a lot in common with most other “detectives”. I refused to be active and loathed violence. Blood gave me bloodcurdling nightmares. Oh, but don’t get me wrong. I’ve dreamt about being a hardboiled detective – cigar in one hand, notepad in the other, scanning the floor for clues with my sidekick beside me. For the past twenty years, I’ve been stuck on one case – a cold case – in which my passiveness disallowed me to do anything but to dream. And that was what I’ve been doing. Strangely, I’ve had that same outlandish dream, which was closely related to my case, for two decades now. Every time, I spot something quaint – a clue or a witness. But I’ve never seen any faces. Surely it’s nothing to be proud of – to be the detective who spent her days sleeping and dreaming. My dreams have gotten me nowhere, only leading me to false clues and dead ends. However, I’m obstinate that one day, the ending to these series of dreams will come – the killer’s face will be revealed and after twenty something aching years, I will be the heroine for once. For now, though, my investigations have not progressed ever since I’ve arrived at this dreadful rodent-hangout – a hospital to some. For Pete’s sake, I haven’t seen anything close to a television since my arrival. Insomnia has struck me every night, and for those of you who’ve tried taking pills before, it’s practically impossible to have dreams after taking hypnotic drugs. There’s been a lot of disagreement from the doctors here, but doggone it, every detective has his/her own method of crime solving and their own fortes. Dreaming was my expertise. I remember my dreams so vividly, as if they were actual memories; yet I remember so little of my actual experiences, just snippets of important dialog and very few mental images of memorable events. There are two events that occurred in my life in which I actually remember thoroughly. The first one was back in ’86 – the beginning of it all.

*** AS I SAT THERE WAITING, I eyeballed the envelope in front of me for the ninety-sixth time. Tempting as it was to open it, I didn’t dare lay a finger on it. He could’ve had arrived at the coffee shop any second now. If he caught me peeking at the parchments inside, Lord knows what would’ve happened. He sounded important on the telephone – especially the wide variety of vocabulary he used. The words on the envelope’s front were all Kazakh to me – I only understood the words “do not open”. As much as I wanted to, the only thing I touched on that table was my cup of cappuccino. Finally, he traipsed over and stood beside me, expecting me to glare at him. I didn’t need to – who else would stand beside me? “Are you who I think you are?” I questioned.

“Yes, missus,” he quietly replied. A rather awkward Eastern European accent, I thought. I turned my head slightly to see a squat, middle-aged fellow with a bulky cranium, much different from what I expected. “Miss,” I corrected him, flashing my jewelry-free ring finger. “I’m sorry,” he apologized under his breath, as he rested his bum on the chair.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Can I open it now?” I asked without hesitating. I managed to spit out a “please” shortly after. “What? You haven’t leafed through it yet?” he exclaimed, appalled. “I didn’t know I was allowed to, I’m sorry,” I explained embarrassedly. “Well, please do,” he said while I immediately unclosed it and skimmed the manuscripts inside. “These are dated around fifteen years ago.” “Yes, I know. Can you do it?” “I can try.” “You will try.” “Oh, well, of course. I’m being paid some big bucks for this.” “Bigger ones if you succeed.” “May I ask why you want to solve this cold case?” “Maybe it’ll answer your question if I told you that the previous four private investigators were fired because they asked me that twice.” “Don’t worry, there won’t be a second time.” He drank his coffee for two minutes. I sat there perusing his facial features: his peepers resembled Humphrey Bogart’s, his unctuous thatch had definitely not been washed for weeks, and his lips were diminutive. Irritated by this silence, I gestured to the door. “I better go now,” I announced as I took out my wallet. He’d already paid me seventy grand before our meeting, so I wouldn’t mind giving the green for the coffee, until he said, “Let’s go Dutch.” His wallet was already ready in his left hand. As I bid the cozy café farewell, thoughts rushed to my head. It was the first cold case I’d ever received – where to look for clues? I was all at sea. Public records on the burdensome matter were extremely onerous to find and there were absolutely no witnesses – other than the killer him/herself. I was an insomniac back then, but that night I slept very well, perhaps too well. That dream never escaped my mind. *** BIG LAKE, 1951. One of Minnesota’s finest towns, it was home to B.L.U., which took up almost a quarter of the town itself. There, university students were focused on their studies as there were no distractions- nightclubs and parties were strangers to the town. Everybody was civilized and mannered, which resulted in a weak law enforcement force. Nobody was prepared for anything – especially what the town experienced on the 26th of January and

the months that followed. Such a violent event happened without anticipation – it was almost random. To me, it seemed more like a nightmare. Up until age seven, I felt loved by my parents every single day. We were the perfect family. We would go for walks in the park every Sunday and go fishing every other Tuesday. My parents were lionized throughout the town, especially in the university. Daughter of the former dean, my mother was a professor in property law. My father ran the catering for the entire university. When we strolled in the park at the university, my parents would discuss current affairs while I would be chatting with my god-sister Lucy. Always three meters behind them, we didn’t want them to barge into our conversation. If my memory serves, it was approximately nine forty-five on the morning of January 26 when the first killing began. A man with a blond wig sunk a knife into the back of a pregnant lady. As she caterwauled in agony, he choked her with his bare hands. Then, he took out his caliber rifle and aimed for my father, who fell onto the grass after trying to abscond. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, my mother scurried towards him, deploring. Bang! The bronze bullet bursted out of the gun and entered her chest. Lying on the ground, I remember watching her body collapse onto the ground. It was almost as if it were in slow motion – her red hair swinging backwards and her teary eyes widening. Mr. Lunatic ran towards Lucy and I, two juvenile immaculate girls who had no clue as to what was going on. If it weren’t for my father, we would’ve been victims of the massacre as well. It was he who hopped onto us and safeguarded us from the charging bedlamite, with a ripper in his paw. He kicked his back and stabbed the knife right into his neck. From then on, I knew it – I was an orphan. My parents had been slaughtered demonically and I was all alone.

The slaughterer then entered the dorms, shooting and stabbing college students. The total death toll from that massacre was at least thirty-two people. As for the killer, he was never found. I remember what that swine looked like – every single lineament and feature. Shortly after that massacre, I went to live with my paternal grandma, who was a newspaper editor. I became isolated at school and started planning my own revenge plots. Vengeance is the first thing that comes to mind when I am reminded of what happened on January 26. It rushes through my entire body, like strong wasabi. And no, I may be sixty-three, but it never really is too late for payback... *** IT REALLY BOTHERS ME HOW SHE NEVER GIVES A DARN. I’ve bemoaned to her half a dozen times that I didn’t want any more tomato bisque. And guess what? As I’m writing this, there’s a plastic bowl of that disgusting soup (juice, really) on my bedside table. How am I, a patient with cancer, supposed to recover if the only thing the nurses in this hospital do is serve me something I abhor for brunch? The other day, I heard her complain to her colleague, saying “La quiero matar” under her breath, between smacks of bubble gum. What I really want to do is to tell her that I took a Spanish course in high school. Sure, my grammar is all incorrecto, but I know when somebody calls me something bad in a foreign language. What I heard proves that she dislikes me as much as I dislike her. So when this short autobiography becomes popular and if you happen to be the owner of the hospital I’m staying at, please do fire (name unavailable due to legal reasons) *** THANKS TO THE THREE CASES I WAS ASSIGNED, my apartment was a library full of photographs and documents. Maid service was mandatory, but maids may have been spies as well, sent from people working against meespecially in the cold case. Why? Well, it drove me up the wall how esoteric the case was, and how my client refused to provide me with any information other than the brown envelope he gave me. Why would a fruitful-looking man bother with a murder twenty years ago? How could he have expected me to dig up any dirt? Luckily, I found two articles about the murder and a few old drivers’

licenses. None of the suspects had any criminal records; this case was out of my depth. Two weeks later, I still had zero new evidence or information. I was about to give up, if it weren’t for the dream I had that night. When I woke up, I knew there was something strange with the dream. It was so vivid, like a small film running in the theatre of my mind. *** AT TWO IN THE MORNING, it’s rather strenuous to be driving on a Cimmerian road in a state I’ve only been in twice. If I hadn’t put my Bob Dylan onto full blast, I would’ve been in the land of nod. For your novella, I told myself, for your novella. The year was ’66 and my epic science fiction had just gone on sale. Critics slammed it for being too “confusing” for a sci-fi. Nonsense, I thought. My publisher thought the same. Therefore he embarked me on a book promo tour in sixteen states. He saw a lot of potential in my book. So did I. Boredom struck me so badly that I started honking to the tune of Dylan’s “Like A Rolling Stone” for no reason. I was having fun for the first time in the night, until I realized that the headlights weren’t working. I couldn’t see anything in front of me – it was pitch black. Oh well, what was there for me to see? My driver-friendly map of Idaho said that there would be nothing for another two miles...

***

A MONTH AND A HALF AFTER MY FIRST MEETING WITH HIM, I arranged to have coffee with my client again. I faced several dilemmas attempting to contact him. None of the six phone numbers he gave me worked, so I had to contact a club in which he was a member of. I finally obtained his actual home number when I deluded the worker into thinking that I was his grandma. Like the previous time, I had to wait for him. And similar to last time, he wore the same clothes and addressed me with “missus”. “I’m not married. Is your memory alright? It’s only been six weeks,” I bantered. He didn’t seem to express tenderness or cachinnate. “I’m sorry,” he replied, in the same manner he did last time. “It’s alright. I don’t suppose you’re married?” I asked. I tried to sound like I actually cared, although I didn’t really give a darn. “No. I had a fiancée, but...” “Oh, I’m sorry. So, about the investigation...” I started. “How’s it going?” he interrupted. “Not so well, I’m afraid,” I stated, hoping that he wouldn’t get daft. “Don’t be. It’s not that huge of a problem. I won’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” “I’m really sorry, but I’ve put all my effort into it.” He shot me a pseudo-smile as I grinned back and took off. *** FOR THE TWENTY YEARS THAT FOLLOWED, I’ve had the same dream about my midnight drive in Idaho. Every few weeks, I would have that dream, only each time it’ll be a bit different. Every time, a different Dylan song played. My apparel and my vehicle changed as well. As I said, it was more like a memory. Yes, it’s true that I have been a science fiction writer when I was in my twenties, but I don’t remember going to Idaho for my book promotion tour... Last night, I had that dream again. However, this time, there was a twist. And an ending... ***

MY WATCH READ TWO FIFTY-TWO. It was hours into the drive and I hadn’t reached a single gas station, motel, or convenient store. Good job keeping your unprepared travelers alive, Idaho! Thank God I had everything in my trunk! Just as I was about to pull over to get some snacks in the trunk, I heard a cacophonous bump. Must’ve hit something, I thought. When I got out of the car with my flashlight, I was rooted to the spot. That ‘something’ turned out to be a ‘someone’. She looked like a schoolgirl, perhaps older. Strangely, I didn’t scream or gasp. That was probably because I was still half-asleep, even though my brain was beating itself up for doing something so fatuous. Gobsmacked, I checked her pulse. Thank God her mighty heart was still beating. I gently pulled her hair and slapped her face, trying to wake her up. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!” I attempted…and failed. I wasn’t a medic! What was I supposed to do? I poked her face and tried to open her eyes for her. Still no movement. Thoughts started hurrying to my brain. What would I do with this pitiable girl? Leave her alone and let her die? Or should I leave her, let her live, and go on to tell the police that there was a doltish driver who almost ran over her? Then if she remembered my license plate, I’d be arrested and my book tour would be no more! Even though I wasn’t in a hurry, I bolted to the trunk and opened it, taking out a knife. Using it, I started cutting her neck. It was then when I became aware of something – either her pulse or her voice. Then her fingers started actuating! Knife in my hand, I chopped her fingers off one by one. I couldn’t take it anymore – I stopped and stabbed the knife into her ticker. That was it. Blood was all over the floor and I even got some of the red liquid onto my shirt. Surging back onto my car, I instantaneously vamoosed. ***

- Note from the Publisher Dear Reader, The author never got to finish this short autobiography. Like most other readers, you probably want to know why. The writing of this 10 paged short autobiography ended as the author was unfortunately murdered before finishing it. Under the request of her lawyer, her name and the names of other persons mentioned are to be kept private. The name “Toby Hung” on the title page is simply a pseudonym chosen by a random method. Regarding the death of the author, a doctor found her stabbed in the neck at 3:24 A.M. on July 28th, 2006 with red liquid (not blood) all over her. There were no fingerprints, clues, nor witnesses at the scene. It was impossible to generate a list of suspects. As of November 3rd of the same year, the investigation has stopped until further notice. The police force also investigated into the author’s “murder” (dream). It turned out that there was such a crime committed in Idaho during June of 1966, when the author was on a book tour promoting her science fiction novella. However, after contacting her publishing company back then, it has been proven that Idaho was not one of the states she visited during her book tour. We hope that you enjoyed this final piece by “Toby Hung”.

A Séance to Remember Kaitlyn Ho The room was tinged with darkness on the edges where you couldn’t see past the shadows. Curtains that hung on the wall were drawn so I couldn’t tell if it was night or day. It was sort of like an out of body experience, I felt like I was actually there, but in a sense, I really wasn’t. Walking around, I started taking in the details of my surrounding: My hazel eyes saw an oak desk under the window, a stiff bed next to it and off to the side, there stood a large wooden chest. Everything was all so familiar, it was like I’ve been there before but I just couldn’t remember. Stepping forward, I glided my hand across the oak desk. It was worn, with chipped corners and on the upper right side, there was an initial: B.E. It was drawn on the desk many times, making an indent on the lacquered wood. B.E? My mind whirled around trying to figure it out, but I came up with nothing that was remotely helpful. I kept looking around; I noticed that the room was impeccably tidy, with barely anything out of place. All the papers were stacked neatly in a pile; the bed was made, the window spotless and all the books put nicely together on a small shelf. It was all kind of creepy. Weirdly, the only thing out of place was a thick black book that sat on top of the bedside table, next to a little lamp that glowed pale, wheat yellow. I crossed the rest of the room in only a few strides, reaching the little side table in a matter of seconds. For some reason, there was a force that felt like some invisible string was pulling me towards the book, I couldn’t explain it, but I felt a sudden urge to touch its smooth black surface, to lift the cover up and just peek inside. But I didn’t dare to, something inside me told me to just stay away from it. But it was so alluring, like the book was the only thing that mattered; it took up my whole vision, it was the only thing on my mind, I HAD to reach out and open it up. And so I did. The moment my finger tips touched the smooth corner of the binding, it was like the book engulfed me, it opened up, the pages blank, flipping back and forth rapidly, just as if a real person was reading through

the pages of the book. Suddenly, wind twirled around me up on my right side, whirling inside the room, it made the pages flip even faster, it was like the pages were never ending, it just kept going on and on. The book grew larger and larger, the blackness of the bindings, covered the whole space, all was dark, I couldn’t see a thing. The fear that beat inside my heart was thunderous; I didn’t know what to do. I was trapped in the darkness. Then, to the peripheral of my vision, I saw the red glow of eyes. They were so human, yet they were so surreal. They stared at me, unblinking. No, these eyes could not belong to a living human, they were filled with something I couldn’t describe, it was on the tip of my tongue when suddenly, the eyes made a shrill scream. I was frightened, so I ran for my life. I ran into the pitch darkness that surrounded me, I had no idea where I was going, I just ran. I forced my limbs to move until my lungs burned inside my chest; I didn’t stop until my legs gave out. My knees buckled and I fell, deep into the depressed darkness. I kept falling, deeper and deeper; all the while, I saw the red glow of the eyes, watching me as a fell. The ring of a high-pitched wind chime was the last thing that I heard. I shot up like a bullet; sweat was trickling down my forehead and my breathing was coming fast and rapid. The hair on the back of my neck was standing and the night air seemed unusually cool around me. I could see the sun peeking through the horizon as I looked out the glass window, its ray kissing the top of elf-green trees. It was only a dream but I had an unsettling, upset gut feeling about it. Something was wrong. I knew it. My heart was thumping in my chest and a massive headache had kicked in, it was the exact same feeling that I’ve been getting since I was nine. The panic that took me in was all too familiar. Nausea shackled itself to my stomach and shivers ran through my entire body. Every time, it ended like this, the vision would end and I would be in a state. I slowly maneuvered off the bed, my feet touching the blue and white checked blanket that had been strewn across the floor halfway through

the nightmare. I picked it up, replacing the surface with the cold wooden floorboards of the dorm room. I did every little thing quietly, as not to wake up my roommate Alicia. I’m surprised I hadn’t actually screamed and woke up my entire dorm when I was trapped inside the darkness. But now I was awake, and even if it was 4:32 am in the morning, I had to figure out what was happening or what is going to happen. But one thing’s for sure, the scarlet red eyes that bore into my own were drained of life. Hatred was woven into the retina, and revenge was spelled out loud and clear through the glossy sheer of red. I went to sit at my ancient oak desk that’s probably been there since the beginning of time or at least, the very first day the school was built. I was not a clean person; I had test papers, project assignments, textbooks, pencils, rulers, eraser scrapings, magazines and even a tube of lip-gloss covering my desk. I needed to write down my nightmare, just in case I forgot. I needed paper and a pencil. With the mess that had piled up since the start of the semester, it was pretty hard to find stuff so I basically dumped everything onto my bed, revealing, for maybe the first time since ever, a moderately clean desk with perfect writing area. And smack on the upper right corner were the engraved initials: B.E. It finally hit me. The room I was trapped in throughout my dream was the very room that I lived in. The familiarity finally made sense to me. The room must have belonged to IT before. The discovery was terrifying for me. Everything that I touch has been touched by it as well. Every step I take might be wherever it has walked upon as well. It scared me, the sweat that had started to disappear suddenly found its way back to the nape of my neck, sending chills from my head to my toes. I had to find out who B.E was, I don’t know why but my nightmare was not something I could ignore. I had to tell Eric and Alicia, they were the ONLY ones who knew that I was psychic, not even my parents knew. ***

We sat together around my oak desk, silent in the darkness. Three candles were placed upon the dark purple tablecloth, the flames flickering rapidly in the drab room, shooting murky shadows across the table and hard wood floors. Plants were removed from the room, cell phones were turned off, the dorm phone unplugged and the little wind chime that I had always hung outside my window was put away. “Everyone put their hands on the table, fingers slightly spread please. Exactly, good.” I instructed as the medium of the group. “Hey, I know I’m all brave and stuff but are you sure that we should be calling its spirit?” Alicia whispered, fear drenched in every word. I knew that this wasn’t fair to Alicia, but I just had to do this one little thing. For the past few days, the blood red eyes have been reappearing each night when I would drift into unconsciousness. “I’m sorry Alicia, but I’ve got to do this, and I’ve got to have you here with me.” I reasoned, hoping that she wouldn’t back out the very last minute. I saw her heart shaped face soften from the rock statue it had become since setting up the room. She gave me a small nod, indicating that I could start the séance. “We are seeking for the one who goes by B.E, the one who haunts me in my dreams, the one who walks the realm of death. Rise from the depths of your grave, for tonight, the veil between our two worlds are thinnest. Enter into our circle and touch our souls.” For the faintest moment, I thought I heard the high-pitched ring of a wind chime. “Nothing is happening.” Eric pointed out, confusion and disappointment written across his perfect face. “Wait longer.” I whispered, silently reciting the prayer in my head. The room was dead quiet, so I closed my eyes, forcing all my strength into

the last sentence of my prayer. All of a sudden, the freezing wind that engulfed me in my dream started. At first, it was a small tornado in the corner of the room, picking up dust as it grew. The wind grew intense, its invisible arms whipped around our hair, chilling us to the marrow of our bone. Something other than dust was mixed into the whirling wind; it was the smell of death. Putrid and nasty, growing bigger and bigger, out emerged a girl dressed in black garments with crimson red eyes. She was tall, with black hair that reached her hips, pale white skin and lips that had been tinted purple. In her small black dress you could see that she was fit, probably someone who could hurt you. Behind her waterfall of straight black hair, the electrifying red eyes found mine. “Seeing me in your dreams was not enough for you I guess, you just HAD to see me for real.” The girl sneered, her thin purple-white lips curling into an evil smirk. “Who the hell are you?” I asked, forcing myself to act fierce. I hope she couldn’t smell fear radiating off me or hear the drips of sweat forming on my forehead and the increasing beat of my heart. “I’m Blaire Elvira if you really insist on knowing.” Blaire said, her every word dripping with sarcasm. Taking a step forward from her original

corner, I noticed that Blaire was floating; her feet bare and hinted with a slight purple shade, just like her lips. “I don’t even know you, why are you visiting me in my dreams?” I cried, looking straight into her eyes hoping that she would give me an answer, but Blaire ignored me and continued to walk slowly towards our table in the center of the room. “Don’t get any closer Blaire.” I warned, exerting energy into my voice, but Blaire didn’t listen, instead, she locked eyes with Alicia from the other side of the room. Alicia whimpered in horror. “Alicia Sieger, that’s your name isn’t it?” Blaire wondered aloud, taking even, slow steps towards our circle. Alicia only managed a slight nod, the motion rigid and slow. “ You look exactly like…”Blaire trailed off, her delicate eyebrows meeting in the center. A few silent moments passed, then, all of a sudden, a fiery red anger ignited within her, Blaire was literally on fire. Her once black hair had orange-red flames at the end, and her small black dress had seams coming undone as the flames blasted around her, the source coming mostly from the ground below her. “YOU! I remember you! You’re the one who did this to me! YOU.KILLED.ME.” Blaire shrieked, venom burning in her ghostly eyes. Her black dress flew all around her as the same chilling wind picked up, this time, aiming at Alicia. “Exactly 30 years ago, YOU, Lianne Kruger, killed me. You drowned me and left me to die! I knew there was a reason as to why I kept appearing in your little friends dream. God gave me a chance to take revenge; He gave me a chance to kill YOU. I will kill you…Just as you killed ME.” Alicia had fallen off her chair and had taken to a corner of the room, curled into a fetal position.

“It’s not me! I didn’t kill you! I’m not Lianne!” Alicia cried between half sobs. Everything was a mess: Eric was in a trance, captured by Blaire’s fiery beauty, the candles were out and toppled over, paper, dust and wrappers were flying from everywhere and with each passing second, Blaire was approaching Alicia’s hiding corner. “You took my life, now I’m going to take yours.” Blaire whispered, the words flowing softly through the wind to my ear. “NO! You can’t do this!” I yelled, throwing myself between my best friend and the ghost who was determined to kill her. Blaire was caught off guard for a second but quickly regained focused, her attention placed on me. She swiped her fiery hand across my neck, creating a giant gash that spread a burning sear of pain throughout my body. I could feel my life draining out of me. I was losing too much blood, my vision filled with black dots and as I took my last breath, I heard the faint sound of a high-pitched chime. The End.

Difficult to Decide: Love and Hate Janani Dhileepan

Mother always told me that the weather was an indication of the day’s mood. She was right. It’s nighttime, and it’s scary. The wind was screaming bloody murder, and the moon was so white it was transparent. The trees were swaying, and I can almost hear them whispering: How could you? How could you? How … I’m scared. Mother Nature is not happy. My brother and I live alone. We live in such a remote place. We used to have a neighbor, but she died. Her name was Susie Sanders. The graveyard is next to my home – with her corpse buried in it – and sometimes, I can hear her talking to me. Tonight, she is saying: How could you? How could you? How … Mother Nature is furious. It takes me an hour to get to school from my house, and I take a shortcut, through the woods. Everyday the woods would welcome me, the smell of grass greeting my nose, and the happy chirping of birds singing to me. Tonight, I do not dare to go near the woods. There’s no smell of grass, but there is a smell. Of blood, I think. I think it’s Susie’s blood. I’m scared. It’s so dark. The moon is the only lamp around. And with an aerial view, you can see the woods on the right, a graveyard on the left, and my house in between. And if you were here, at nine o’clock today, you would hear my brother coming home. He would walk up the pavement, and when he opens the door, if you peek in, this is what you would see. You would see me, on the sofa, gripping the armrest, my knuckles white as milk.

Grip, let go. Grip, let go. Grip, let go. GRIP, LET GO! GRIP, LET GO! GRIP, LET … NO, STOP IT! LET GO! IT’S NOT THE SOFA’S FAULT! LET GO OF THE ARMREST! “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He’s sorry? He’s sorry? Yeah! He should be! I’m sitting on my sofa in my living room, and my big brother is sitting across from me. He comes home, and then he tells me that he… This is ridiculous. Just three hours ago, I was at the table in my room, doing my homework. Or at least, trying to. I was, in truth, waiting for my brother to return. I couldn’t concentrate. I was giddy with anticipation. My brother – he was gone for a week – was returning today! The clock was singing and ticking annoyingly on my wall. I wish the university would not ask him to go for special meetings in weird places in the world. I mean, Czechoslovakia? I put my pencil down, and looked around my room. It was huge. Ever since my brother started earning, we became ultra rich. I love my brother. Because of him, I had a room with balcony, a bunk bed, a laptop, and, get this, my very own bathroom! I love him, I love him, I love him! I raked my fingers through my hair, and was tempted to wash my face. I had to have a break from doing my homework – or really, not doing my homework. I got up and walked to the bathroom. Splashing some water on my face, I looked in the mirror. I do that a lot when my brother isn’t around. It’s really because we are nearly identical, and when I look in the mirror, I can see him, even if he is two years older than me and we’re different genders. We are both Indian, with dark brown eyes, both skinny wait, scratch that. We are both not-fat. My brother is muscular, and I’m thin. And we both very much resemble our mother, who just passed away. We both have black hair, though I have mine longer. Same partially wide eyes, fairly long noses, and flawless soft skin, so soft to touch that it was like silk. Though now and then, my brother would come back with bruises

and cuts when he comes back from his weird trips. I continued to wash my face. The fresh smell of soap got to my nostrils, and I breathed so deeply that some got in my nose and mouth. I coughed and spluttered and blew my nose. Ew, I could taste the soap! Halfway through, I heard the bell ring. I leapt out of my bathroom, practically tripped my way down the stairs, swung the door open, and flung myself at my brother (and wiped my soap-filled face in his suit). I love him! I pulled away and smiled happily at him. “Oh, gosh, I missed you. I…” I stopped short. “What happened?” I asked, in a hoarse whisper. I could feel the tension between us. My brother’s usually handsome, tanned face was marred with ugly purple bruises, cuts galore, and his coal-black hair was red with blood. I eyed him in horror. His suit was tattered mercilessly, and on his leg was a cut so long, it went from his knee to his ankle. I could see his stomach, his knees, and his legs – because parts of his suit were missing in those places. He eyed me warily. “Sit down.” And this was where my world ended. He tells me this? This? Argh! And he expects me not to be angry, furious, and hurt, and asks that I forgive him! I mean, how many girls have big brothers coming home, their suit torn, cuts all over their faces? As if that wasn’t enough of a mystery, and instead of an explanation, he just makes things worse by telling me the most horrendous thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Good heavens, I hate – no, I detest him! “I’m sorry, but I had no choice! If I had not done it, then…I did it because he killed Mum. He was going to do the same to you! Please understand! He killed Mum!” “And I’ll kill you!” I scream, jumping off the sofa and tackling him. It takes him some time, but he wrestles me off him, and pins me to

the other sofa. I feel disgusted. I hate him. I look around the room, avoiding his eyes. I spot the yellow sofa across from me. Mother had bought it three days before my birthday. My heart breaks. The miniature Big Ben was next to me. We got that when we could afford to go to London. I was so thrilled at the time. My eyes blur. I blink tears back in a hurry. I will not cry. The dining table, oh, I can just smell mother’s food. Now, we order pizza at home. Mother, why? Why did you leave us? And the picture of my whole family together. I was sitting on mum’s lap, and that idiot of a brother was on my dad’s. Dad is dead. Mum is dead. I want to die. I choke back a sob. Why? Why me? “I’m so sorry,” he says. I cry. I can’t help it. Looking into his brownish-black eyes, half covered by his ash-colored hair, I knew he regrets what he did. “Why?” “Why what?” “Why are you still here?” He looks hurt. “I mean, didn’t they find you? How did you make sure nobody found out?” My brother looks uncomfortable. His eyes drift elsewhere and land on the clock. “Oh, look, it’s getting late. Go to bed.” I glance at the clock. Ten past nine. I usually sleep at eleven or so. He must not want to tell me in detail – let alone vaguely – what happened. He thinks I’m too young to understand or something like that. I am not a baby. I hate him. “Fine,” I spit.As I stalk away, I can feel his gaze on my back, and I

have to bite back another fresh round of tears and insults. When I reach my room, I cannot help it. I unleash all my anger, frustration, sadness, hurt, betrayal, and desperation for everything to be a dream. Halfway through throwing everything and crashing at, well, everything, I stop. I could see my brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s silhouetted figure. His face is in his hands, he is doubled over, and his shoulders are shaking. Now comes a new feeling. Regret. But my stubbornness would not let me go to my brother to set things right. So, haughtily, (after one last crash!) I bury myself in my bed and roughly yank the blankets over my head, praying for sleep. God does not answer my prayers until another few hours later.

I toss and turn in my sleep. It is as though my brain were chiding me for my stupidity. It is reminding me of all the obvious clues that had been there all the time right in front of me. My brother with a knife in his hand. Susie Sanders dead. A close family friend gone. Stupid me. Stupid me. Why do I have to be alive? I wake up. I push myself up and rub all the grogginess out of my

eyes. And – just like in stories, when something bad happens, and I go to sleep and wake up – a wave comes crashing down upon me, putting all the pain and sadness and fear or whatever back on my shoulders. I think that my shoulders are ready to collapse at this point. And my stomach feels as though someone has stuck a knife in me. I glance out of the window. My brother is probably still sitting in the same position as when I went to sleep, except he is staring straight ahead. What time is it? One in the morning. Sighing to myself, I get up, slip on my slippers and walk to the living room. He isn’t there. I try calling out his name softly. No response. I search everywhere and finally find him, sitting on the steps outside our house. “A-are you okay?” I ask, hesitantly stepping closer. I expected a ‘Please, believe me’, or something like that, but what he says was not what I expected. “They’re coming for me.” “Huh?” “They’re coming for me.” “No, I got you the first time.” I walk around and sat, facing him. The moment I look at his face, I’m frightened. Yeah, this would do great in a horror movie. I can just imagine how it would be: Two youths rested on the steps, waiting for doom. Both brown skinned, both black haired. Both have brown eyes. One is staring vacantly into space, his eyeballs dilated a creamy white, and just like that, his skin so bloodless, it was as white – or even whiter – than the moon. The girl’s milky dress fluttered against the wind, and her hair tousled against the ruthless air. They would have been identical, if not for the paleness of the boy. They both stood out brilliantly against the black of the night. other, one moved his mouth. “They’re coming for me.”

And as the pair stood, staring at each

I do not know how to handle this. “Who’s coming for you? “They are.” Okay, this is really weird. Maybe try asking again? “Exactly who is coming for you?” “Dead.” “Who died?” Other than the obvious. Who else did you kill? What else are you hiding from me? “Father.” He does not need to remind me. It’s bad enough knowing that your father was a psychopath, much less that he killed his own wife, and tried to kill his daughter. The pain was still fresh. “All the dead are coming for me. Chester, Jack, Shreya, Theodore, Abhinav…” Abhinav. Abhinav Gupta. My father’s name. He must be listing whoever he killed in order, my father being the most recent. And who are the other people? I close my eyes in pain. Tell me, big brother, are you a trained assassin? You don’t really go on trips to Czechoslovakia, do you? That was just a cover-up. Taking advantage of his delirious state, I ask, “What happened that night? The night you killed father?” “Bought a cutting knife. Twelve o’clock. Knocked on his door. Wearing black. Shoved the knife through his chest.” I shiver. “And the body? Where is it now?” “I don’t know. Oh, wait. I do. Mother’s grave.” “How come you didn’t get caught?” “Nobody had records of him. Everybody thinks he is dead, after his car crash. He went mad because of it.” He wails. “All that blood… on my hand, and the guts…” Why did he not complain about Chester’s, Shreya’s and whoever’s blood and guts? Of course. This is his father that he killed. Of course he

would feel queasy at the sight of the blood, guts, brains, and – this is sickening. No wonder he did not want to tell me. Or maybe he was just getting over it himself…I misjudged him. I love him. He wanted to protect me, and I treat him like this? Now I felt mad, at myself. “They were going to kill you. I love you. I couldn’t let that happen… I love you… you’re my life…” He buries his face in my hair, and wraps his arms around me. I cry into his shoulder. Father also killed Susie Sanders. My brother had to kill him. Finally, my sobs subside, and I let my mind trail back to when my brother and I were so happy. All of a sudden, his voice interrupts my train of thoughts. “They’re coming for me.” Tenderness and love seeps through me. “Yes, they are. Don’t worry, though.” “They’ll kill me. I don’t wanna die. They’ll kill me…” He sounds like a scared, little boy. “No, they won’t. I’ll be here for you.” And with that, I pull away from him, take his hand, grip it hard, and we wait, together, for them to come. I’ll provide him with the strength he needs. I don’t know, is this a dream? Has my brother gone demented? Will they even come? Is it actually the police that are coming? I don’t know any of the answers. All I know is that I will wait, with my brother, for however long it takes, because I love him.

Myself and I Alex McIntyre The house was quiet as Paul sat at his fairly empty, yet organized worktable. Quiet, that is, all except the rhythmic tapping the tiny bottle made against the glass of water before him. The man shook his hand again, making that mesmerizing sound as the little pills rattled behind their plastic case. Slowly, he placed it down, making sure the label was turned away from him. He was letting himself become distracted. He ran his hand over his short, treacle-coloured hair, smoothing it down, before leaning forward over his paper. This was useless. He would have to get out for a walk before he could accomplish anything. Paul pushed in his chair, leaving the bottle behind. Later, he thought. It was always later. Paulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind was much clearer as he strode down the sidewalk, breathing in fresh air and glancing in shop windows. He came to a stop at a diner, thinking maybe a nice cup of coffee would perk him up. The door tinkled as he pushed it gently open, and surveyed the cheery interior for an empty seat, preferably a stool at the counter. At last, he found one, and waited patiently for a waitress to come and take his order. He picked up the menu with one hand, idly perusing the selection of hot drinks. He peered over his shoulder, scanning the crowd for a green apron. His gaze fell upon one girl in particular, her head nodding slightly as she jotted down the order of someone in front of her. She held the pen between her

teeth as she tucked her notepad away, her auburn curls falling slightly over her face. Instantly, Paul was smitten. Paul, for the second time in two days, strode down the street, and turned into the very same diner. He sat himself in the same seat, and searched for the girl he had seen before. Before long, he spotted her, setting out shiny cutlery at a table not far away. This time, he managed to catch the loopy writing on her nametag: Lauren. To Paul, her name was perfect. The perfect name for the perfect face of an angel he saw before him. Paul was watching as the angel finished setting the table, and brushed a curl of hair away from her green eyes. He was barely thinking about his order when a voice brought him away from Lauren. “Are you ready to order, sir?” A different voice, pitchy as an old record. Not hers. He turned, disappointed to find a lady nowhere near as beautiful as an angel. “Yes, I am,” he smiled, holding out his menu to her. “I will be having a coffee. No sugar or cream, please. Just black,” he finished politely, before turning his head away. When he looked back, Lauren was gone The sky was darkening as Paul sauntered home, the chirps of evening birds beginning to grow louder. He slowed to a stop as an aging door swung open before him – the door to a quaint flower shop he had not noticed before. “Wonderful,” he gestured, leaning down as he held a rose between two fingers. “Next time I see Lauren, I will bring her some flowers. She’ll be delighted,” he stated, not to anyone else, but himself. The man then continued down the pale concrete path, humming pleasantly to himself as he brought up the memory of Lauren’s beautiful profile. The door swung open, as it often did, but Lauren could feel the presence of someone’s gaze directed toward her. She turned, a few menus at hand, holding her usual smile.

“Good morning. May I help you, sir?” she said calmly, as her routine had always recited. The man she saw before her was odd. He stood awkwardly, his eyes staring into hers with almost…force. “A table for one, I presume?” She swallowed awkwardly, still holding up her smile. Her customer nodded slowly, taking out from behind him a single white rose, which she took with caution, and much confusion. She smiled that beautiful smile of hers; obviously pleased with the gift he had brought her. Paul felt light as a feather as she then directed him to a seat. Her voice was like the singing of the night sky, a gentle breeze that wrapped around his mind. He watched quietly as she took his flower to the counter, placing it gently in a tall glass of water. She glanced at him, smiled, then hurried away, flustered. Lauren clenched the kitchen door behind her, breathing slightly quicker than normal. She shook her head as Jackie passed by her, balancing a few dishes in her hand. “I’ll take care of him, hon,” Lauren’s friend smiled, feeling sorry for her. Paul waited patiently before, not Lauren, but another girl pushed through the metal door separating him from her. He frowned. Where did she go? Before long this became routine for Paul. He would work for a few hours before heading down for a coffee or some lunch. When Lauren was there, he was in a good mood. When she wasn’t, he’d return home disappointed.

It was late afternoon on the Wednesday of the next week, and Paul was arriving for the second time that day to make up for not seeing Lauren since Saturday. The door swung open, revealing the noisy, warm interior of the diner. He sat down in a booth, focusing his line of sight behind the counter. For the third day in a row, he could not find Lauren. He called over the first waitress that passed him. “Excuse me, have you seen Lauren around?” he asked politely. The lady he had asked was openly fretting about something. She was fiddling with her nametag, the little writing on it statings she was ‘Jackie’. “No. No, I haven’t,” Jackie answered, glancing around her as if she though someone were listening. With that, she grabbed a used mug from Paul’s table and hurried away, narrowing her eyes at him and muttering something under her breath before disappearing behind the kitchen doors. Paul licked his lips and stared after her suspiciously. Shouldn’t her coworkers know why she hadn’t been at work for three days? She could be anywhere. She could be hurt. The thoughts ran through Paul’s mind, making his heart beat faster. He stood up quickly, stepping outside. He looked to his left, spotting a telephone booth. He strode up to it, opening the painted metal door and closing it behind him. He pressed the buttons forcefully, holding the receiver against his ear. He waited. “911, what’s your emergency?” “I’m reporting a missing person, by the name of Lauren Taylor.”

“Do you know where she was last seen?” “Her apartment on twenty-third Oak Drive, at around seven o’clock at night on Friday.” “Is there anywhere for us to meet you or someone else who can talk to us?” “Yes, I’m standing outside her workplace right now.” The conversation lasted a while longer, Paul telling the man the other details, where he was, where Lauren worked, and heard the man answering that he’d be right there. He waited on the step outside the diner, watching as customers slowly moved out as the day wore on. Before long a police car pulled up, the siren and lights off. A tall man in uniform stepped out of the car, pulling out a notepad from his belt. “Are you Paul Seton?” The policeman spoke with authority, checking the name from his notes. “I am he. I called about Lauren Taylor. I suppose you want to know what she looks like?” Paul’s voice was taut. The policeman nodded. “She is around 5”5, with shoulder-length auburn hair – and green eyes. She worked here.” He gestured to the building behind him before running his hand over his hair. “Don’t worry, we’ll find your girlfriend.” The policeman patted his shoulder before stepping around him and into the diner. Jackie swept a hand across her forehead, pushing her short black hair out of her eyes. She waved goodbye to the last customer, relieved the day was finally over. She brushed a few crumbs off a table before turning at the sound of the door tinkling open. “I’m sorry, we just closed for the day.” She stopped in her tracks when she saw who had entered. “Oh, I’m sorry officer!” she apologized, flustered. “I didn’t see you. Is there a problem?” “Yes, I had a call about a missing person. Do you have any information on Lauren Taylor?” Jackie’s heart sank. “Oh no…Lauren,” she whispered. “You’ve noticed she’s gone?” the policeman questioned.

“Of course! She works the same hours as me. I’ve left late every night since a few days ago. I’m her friend.” Jackie swallowed. The policeman scratched above his eyebrow with a finger, sighing in confusion. “I’ve already reported this to people with more experience, but have you tried calling friends? Family? Have you been to her apartment? Her boyfriend said she hasn’t been home, either.” Jackie’s head snapped up. Boyfriend? “I’ve been calling her twice a day. No answer. She’s a quiet girl, she lives alone and I don’t know about any other friends or family. But officer, I…” she continued quickly, but still managed to get cut off as the door opened, and a cool draft swirled around her ankles. Paul closed the tinkling door behind him, blocking the breeze of evening air that was entering the diner. He looked over to the two, who seemed to be silently watching him walk to them. “Is there anything new, officer?” he asked, glancing sideways at Jackie. “Unfortunately, no. I think we’re going to have to leave this to the professionals.” He folded up his notes and tucked them away, Jackie hanging very close to his side. “Can I…talk to you for a moment?” She cleared her throat, gesturing to the kitchen. “Of course. Paul, we’ll just be a moment.” He nodded, following Jackie behind the swinging doors. Paul took a seat at a booth, sitting as calmly as if he were there for lunch. Except it was getting gradually darker, and the only light in the room was a desk lamp sitting by the cash register. He sat very still, just barely hearing the conversation in the kitchen. “No, you don’t understand!” Jackie gripped the counter below her fingers. “He’s been following her, every day he comes in – just looking for her!” she whispered, almost hissing as she tried to get her point across. “You’re right,” the officer shook his head, “I don’t understand.” Jackie tried to speak again, but the policeman held up his hand. “I’ve talked to him. He’s very upset Lauren’s gone.”

“He’s not even her boyfriend! Lauren’s never even spoken to him – but he knows where she lives. I’ve never once seen her in conversation with him. Please – you have to believe me!” “Enough!” He stood up, ready to push open the door back into the diner. “How would you know what they talk about, where they go? You’re not around all the time! Like I said, I have to leave this to someone who knows more about this kind of thing.” He pushed open the door, letting it swing shut. Jackie hung back, on the verge of tears. He listened. Paul’s heart sped up, cold sweat beading on his lip. He didn’t wipe it away. He could hear her, talking about him as if she knew him. It was dark now, and he could see the shape of the two through the white light coming from the glass in the kitchen door. The officer was shouting something now. Paul tightened his grip on the ketchup bottle in his palm, his knuckles growing white. He had the dull pain in his head that meant Jared was not pleased with him. Every second passed by painfully, and Paul held on, waiting seemingly patiently for them to finish. The door swung open, a red-faced officer stepping out into the room. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, this is stressful for all of us.” Paul nodded, barely looking at him. “Look, I’m really sorry. This is all I can do. I’ll send a professional down tomorrow, okay? But you’d better leave, Jackie’s closing up,” he finished, stepping outside into the dark. Paul waited without moving a muscle until he heard the police car engine start up. He turned his head at the sound of Jackie’s sniff in the kitchen. He stood. Each step was drawn out as he neared the light behind the doors, a murmuring in the back of his mind, reminding him what he already knew. Light streamed over his creased face as the door swung open. --

More cars pulled up, their flashing siren lights reflecting off the yellow tape covering the door. The chief of Forensics stepped out of the police car, his assistant emerging after him. “Ah, Mathews,” someone called for him, “You’re here. A neighbour found the body about an hour ago. She had noticed the lights were off, the employee hadn’t left.” The detective gestured to her car by the curb. He led Mathews into the building, noticing that the diner had been cleaned and locked down, all except for the inside of the kitchen. The flash on a camera lit up the room momentarily, revealing the body of a young lady – perhaps in her late twenties. She was still in her waitress apron, but it was stained with blood. “Blunt force trauma to the skull,” the forensic noted to herself as she pulled the camera away from her eye. “Some kind of glass object.” She snapped another picture of the chunks of glass surrounding the body. “Not all of it is blood,” Mathews claimed, kneeling down to get a better look. “It’s too thick, looks like ketchup.” The detective turned at him, realization coming across his face. “Of course! Sarah, check the tables in the diner. There’s got to be a bottle of ketchup missing somewhere. Looks like the girl had everything cleaned and organized before she died.” Sarah left the kitchen, camera in hand, as Mathews’ phone began to ring. He followed her into the diner before answering. “Hello, who’s speaking?” He frowned, listening in silence to the man on the other end. “But we’ve already talked to him…who?…are you saying he has…yes…of course… this isn’t good. Right away.” He flipped his phone shut and opened the kitchen door a crack. “Call for backup, we’ve got our murderer.” -Paul closed and locked the door behind him, whistling to himself as he hung up his coat and headed up the stairs. He opened the door to his bathroom and splashed his face with water. When he brought the facecloth away, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror. “It is done.”

“Good, she always suspected you. She didn’t trust you with Lauren,” came the answer from his own lips. “And you didn’t trust me with Lauren. You killed her.” The conversation continued. He answered for his reflection as if it were another man standing before him. “How could I? She was distracting you from me. Besides, she would never have understood who you are.” “You killed her, Jared,” he repeated, his head growing hot. There was a silence as he stared at himself, his hair now wild and dark with water. “I tried to keep you away, but you killed her!” he screamed, beating the mirror with a fist, cracking it in a webbed pattern and leaving dots of blood on his palm. In the distance, a police siren began to wail, growing steadily closer. Paul ran to his desk, his feet noisily hitting the ground. He rummaged through his organized desk, swiping things out of the way before he came to what he needed. In one fast motion, he grabbed the little bottle and twisted the lid off, throwing it aside. “Stay away from me!” he bellowed, before dumping the entire contents of the medication bottle into his mouth. He gripped the sides of his head, before falling to his knees and collapsing at the foot of his bed just as the front door broke open. Mathews sprinted up the stairs, a few men behind him. But it was too late. He turned into the bedroom to find Paul collapsed on the floor. Paul was still alive – barely. But there was no hope for him. Gingerly, Mathews pried the bottle out of his hands. “He’s taken an overdose.” He turned it over and read the tiny label on the bottle. “Splitpersonality. I got a call from a doctor outside of town. Paul Seton was diagnosed with severe Schizophrenia a year ago – but he refused to take medication.” There was a silence as the others gathered around and proclaimed Paul was dead. “Looks like he’s taken it all in one go,” one said, kneeling down and feeling his still-warm forehead. “But why did he kill them?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever find out. That’s something only the other side of him would know.” Mathews sighed. “Get the others over here,” he ordered, stepping away from the body. “We’ve got a lot of paperwork to do.”

Silvia Veronica Dickson

Silvia Peterson was going to be murdered. That was settled. There was nothing to be done about that fact. The problem was, how and when should this act be carried out? Silvia was strolling to the door as she yelled across the house, “Bye, mom! I’ll be back soon. Just going out for a snack!” “Okay honey. Don’t eat too much, and be careful!” Agatha finished folding the blouse and set it on the bed. She was always a bit nervous when Silvia went out alone, even if it was only to the corner store. Their Seattle neighborhood wasn’t really “safe”, per se. She pushed the nervous thoughts away. Silvia always went to the 7-11 in the afternoon, and for fourteen years, nothing had happened to her. What was there to be nervous about? She picked up another of Silvia’s jeans and started putting them away, humming as she went along. On that fateful day, Silvia left home at the usual time, half past four and was due to come back at a quarter to five. Agatha waited by the doorstep as usual but as the clock ticked. Five o’ clock came around and Silvia was nowhere to be seen. Anxious and hurriedly, Agatha put on her coat and headed straight to

the 7-11 half-expecting to see Silvi propped up on the bike rack chatting to a school friend. But nothing could have prepared her. The 7-11 was just two minutes away. Maybe she would get something for herself as well, Agatha mused. Perhaps a doughnut. She hadn’t had one in ages, and she could already taste it now. She could see the neon sign just ahead. She could picture Silvia now. She would tap her lightly on the shoulder to surprise her. Agatha turned the corner and screamed.

“Hm. Hm, yes, I think that’s nicely done,” Agatha was murmuring under her breath. She was making Silvia’s bed and had just finished laying out the pillows. “I hope Silvia likes her new bed sheets. I picked them because they’re red. Her…” She started taking deep breaths and trying to calm down. “They’re her favorite…” Agatha was starting to cry now. “Her favorite color,” Agatha wailed, slumped up against the bed, chest heaving with her strangled cries. She brought up her fists and hit the bed frame with such force her hand began to bleed. She carried on for a full five minutes, sobbing quieter and quieter until she just stared into space. Muted and ruined, she gazed around the room that, a few days earlier, had been the sanctuary of her beloved daughter. Now it was completely lifeless. It wasn’t messy – Agatha had taken care of that. She’d cleaned it every day as if Silvia were still there. She unmade the bed in the evenings and then, in the morning, she made it again. She made meals for two people, and threw the leftovers in the trash. She cleaned Silvia’s clothes, even though they were already clean and hanging in the closet. Agatha went about the daily chores as if nothing had happened, but she had breakdowns several times during a day – after every task that involved Silvia she would cry and throw things. Then, when it was over, she would stand up, clean up the mess and carry on, almost as if she had forgotten the whole incident in the first place. Agatha Peterson was slowly convincing herself that Silvia was still there. She would forget all about what happened that day and just wait for her precious

Silvi when she came home from school. Sometimes Agatha would recall back to the time when she saw Silvia’s lifeless body on the concrete. She would remember the blank stare in her eyes as she tenderly raised her head. The tears didn’t come until she brushed away the hair and saw the red marks on her neck and the force used on her daughter. Agatha had just sat there as tears streamed down her face until the police came. It was all a blur to her from when they took in Silvia’s body for an autopsy, until they took her home and told her to get some rest and move in with some family. What family? Agatha asked herself. Her husband ran off ten years ago. She hadn’t heard from her sister in months, and her parents were dead. She and Silvia only had each other. Two weeks after Silvia’s death, Agatha started facing facts. She began to understand that Silvia wasn’t ever going to come back again. Silvia was dead, and it was up to her to find out who did it. “I have to take charge. I must do something about this,” she told herself. Later that day, she walked over to the police station and demanded to see the Sheriff. “I’m sorry ma’am, but have you filed a report?” asked the young desk sergeant. “No! I will find out who killed Silvia NOW!” screamed Agatha. The desk sergeant was taken aback. “Now calm down, ma’am. You must follow the procedure. Have you filed a report?” “I won’t file a report. I have to see the Sheriff now. My daughter has just been killed and I want to see justice!” Agatha was staring the policeman right in the eye. He started to walk around the desk to her, signaling the other officers to come. A small group of policemen were gathering around the raving Agatha. One of them began to put his hand on her shoulder but she slapped the hand away. She was breathing heavily. One of the officers spoke. “Ma’am…can you tell us your name? Have you filed a report?” At those words Agatha screamed and tackled the policeman, ripping his

hair out and scratching his face. All the other officers were yelling and trying to get her off of him. The young desk sergeant hauled her up and the other policemen handcuffed her. That was the first time Agatha had been in a jail. She was not sure what her sentence was, but she was told that she had to stay overnight. Apparently they would conduct tests on her the next day. Psychiatric tests, they said. Agatha dismissed the thought. She wasn’t crazy. She was just a mother. They didn’t understand the pain she’d gone through. They didn’t have a dead daughter. They didn’t see their offspring dead on the street. All those thoughts went through Agatha’s mind as she sat on the cold hard bench of her cell. Who would buy the groceries while she was away in jail? She eyed the grimy toilet seat. She could picture cockroaches spilling out while she was sleeping. Agatha shuddered. She walked over and sat on the bed. She pulled the sheet off, and she swore she saw a bedbug crawling through. She lay down and drifted off into a dreamless sleep. She woke up suddenly by a clanging of metal. She stood up and walked over to the bars where an officer was standing there. He brought her to a room full of people in coats. They told her that they would perform some tests. Throughout the day, they held up pictures and asked her what she saw. She would answer lazily and without interest. Finally, the day was over. She spent another night in jail, and then spent another day doing tests. At the end of the day, they escorted her home, and said they would come get her in a few days. She immediately walked to the window and watched them go. After that she went to Silvia’s room and started talking to her daughter. “You know, Silvia, I didn’t think I was a bad person. I was a straight A’s student in Junior High. I never did anything wrong in my whole life. Why would I go to jail? Well, it was kind of interesting.” She chuckled. “What am I doing here? Talking to Silvia. She’s dead! I’m just talking to empty space.” Agatha stood up and started to leave, when she caught sight of a small piece of paper on Silvia’s desk. It was a handwritten name. It read: Eric Tailor. Eric Tailor? Where did she know that name from? Eric Tailor. Yes! Now

she remembered. He was an old boyfriend of Silvia’s. What if…no. It couldn’t be him. What if he had killed her? Agatha could picture it. Silvia would have broken up with him. He would have gone mad with rage. He would have strangled her to death and then ran away. Agatha was pacing the room now. All her thoughts were whirling around her head: where he lived, and how she would get to him. Agatha patrolled the room looking for clues. What if Silvia was secretly seeing him? Agatha threw open all her drawers and whipped open her folders. But other than the small piece of paper, the room revealed nothing. Eric Tailor, Agatha thought. It had to be him. Over the next few hours Agatha pored over Silvi’s yearbooks. She looked in the phonebook. “Tailor…Tailor…Tailor….” There must have been a million. She looked over school reports and diary entries. She even tried Silvia’s computer, but couldn’t figure out the password. “I will find this boy. And he will pay a terrible price.” Agatha Googled Eric Tailor, Roosevelt High School. When she clicked on the first link and a picture popped up, she knew. Oh, she knew it was him. She quickly wrote down all his information and packed up her bag. Inside were only the necessities. His information, her mascara, a pack of Kleenex. And a gun. Agatha took the bus to Roosevelt High School and waited until 3:30. She stood outside, picture in hand as she watched all those students walk past her. She was afraid she’d missed him until…there. There he was. One look and she was sure. He was laughing with a group of friends. Joking around. How could he joke around when he’d just taken a life? How could he live with himself? She was fuming as he walked past her. He didn’t even glance her way. It was all going as planned. She trailed him around the block. She knew this area; it would be easy

to kill him. There was never anyone around. This wasn't a good neighborhood. In fact, she could remember herself noting never to come near here – it wasn’t safe. As he turned another corner, she could see which house he was headed to. He was listening to his iPod, and was completely oblivious to his surroundings. Agatha darted up ahead and hid behind his car before he could spot her. She had a clear view from behind the hood of the car to the front door. She heard him stroll up the driveway, quietly whistling his song as he searched for his keys. Finally, he found them and as he turned them inside the lock, he heard a voice behind him. “Eric,” Agatha sang. He turned around, and she shot him in the head. Agatha walked down the road to her house with perfect ease. Her mind was blank. She had avenged her daughter. Now she could rest. She opened her front door and walked in. She strode over to the sink and washed her hands. She grabbed the gun, and set it down on the table. She stumbled to her bed, losing her footing. Her mind was swirling as she passed out. Agatha woke up. The clock on her nightstand told her that she’d only been out for a few minutes. She rubbed her head and remembered her previous deed. She felt sick, and ran to the bathroom to throw up. She staggered out and saw the gun. She started crying for Silvia, asking her what she’d done. She begged for mercy as she picked up the gun to her head. Her last words as she pulled the trigger were: “I’m coming, honey.”

Epilogue The police came to Agatha’s house a day later. They had told her they would come in a few days, so as to give her the results of her tests. They knocked on the door repeatedly, and when no one answered, they tore down the door. They came in to find Agatha dead, clutching a gun. They had come to tell her that the results had ended up positive. Agatha was not of stable mind. The police were shocked to see that Agatha’s house was full of pictures

of a little girl. When the police were testing Agatha, they had checked her records. Agatha lived alone. She never had a daughter. Agatha was a forty three year old woman from Ohio. She had no contact with any of her family members. She never married. The little girl in the pictures didn’t exist. Silvia did not exist. When the police had found Agatha dead, they checked her phone records, and the notes in her purse. They found out that Agatha had killed a young boy by the name of Joel Williams. He had no connection with her; the murder seemed completely random. The file of Agatha Peterson is known as the ‘strangest police record of Seattle history’. No one actually knows what was going on inside that head of Agatha’s.

The Near Impossible Amit Gal-Or Co-written with Lorraine Ho

The large, ember-yellow sun was shining over Poland, blessing the Polish citizens with the warmth of its gaze. All over the country, enormous Bartek trees grew. Hiding behind them were snow-white houses, timid to show their innocent colors. On the wide-open spaces of grass, the kids were playing around and the carefree laughter of adults could be heard. In the fields, wildflowers grew in colorful bundles, adding a pleasing and fresh aroma to the area. Felka Bergner, a young lady in her twenties, was already married to a wonderful husband. Her wavy, gold yellow hair was being blown about as the wind caught at its flaxen strands. Staring into the morning sky, her deep-set eyes shone in the light. Felka scratched her classical nose; she was thinking about Poland’s near future. What would happen, now that Hitler was starting to take over her country? Her thin body was cuddled up on the field in which she rested. As Felka relaxed on the soft grass, she heard the sound of heavy footsteps echoing around the field. Whoever it was, they were wearing boots – the only type of shoes that could make so much noise. Boots? Felka whipped around. This must mean that the German army was near! Without a second thought, Felka bolted back towards her house, intent on warning her husband. Run, Felka, run. Her mind was thrumming with the thought that she wouldn’t let the Nazis anywhere near her husband – no, it wasn’t that she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Felka swerved a Bartek tree and sped into one of the white houses. Even as she opened her mouth to speak, she knew that she was too late. The Germans were close; Felka could already here their hated, dreaded boots. Too late. Oh, dear God, save us. Save us, your people. When they reached her house, the Nazis rounded up Felka’s family. The Nazis then ordered Felka and her husband to be sent to a working camp.

“What of my family?” she protested. “Please stop!” The Nazi Official simply looked at her coldly and ordered for the rest of her family to be sent to a death camp. Still, Felka nursed a tiny blossom of hope – hope – that her family would run away, survive. She never saw her parents again. Felka and her husband were sent to their camp by a train. The journey lasted a week; a very long week. They were forced into a cramped compartment with sixty other people. Not much food was given, and Felka was starving. In addition, with no windows in the train, it was hard for her to breathe. “I can’t take it anymore!” Felka cried out one day. “It’s going to be alright,” replied one of the men. “I overheard the Germans saying that we’re going to reach the camp in a few hours. It’ll be alright.” It’s going to be alright. Felka repeated the words in her head over and over, hoping that when she woke up the next morning, she would start to believe in that simple, hopeful sentence.

*****

When they reached the camp, the Polish Jews stretched their arms and exclaimed their happiness to the skies. But they didn’t know how terrible the place was. Felka was one of the last to get out of the train. As soon as she and her beloved stepped out, her husband was shot for no reason. Several people gasped. Felka couldn’t help it; she collapsed by the body of the man she loved and sobbed her heart out. “Who will stay by my side? Somebody? Anybody?” Felka cried, looking at everyone but no one replied. They were all too scared of the Nazis. It was clear that she was now on her own. Alone. She could only grasp her husband’s limp hand and weep. There was nothing else she could do.

*****

After a month, Felka was still alive in that horrible camp. She knew that the Germans were keeping her only because she was one of the few who could sew. But Felka wanted to run away and live a good life, the life she was supposed to have before all of this happened. Who knew people can be so cruel. Day after day, Felka thought about her dream, looking for a way to accomplish it. Months had past and she didn’t have a lot of time to think about a solution to get out, until one day she found it. The next day, she told a couple of her friends about her dream. “I can’t live here anymore,” she declared. “We must escape somehow. There’s got to be a way!” “But how?” mumbled one of her friends. “We got in,” Felka said, her determination growing. “If there’s a way in, there’s got to be a way out.”

*****

Needless to say, her friends agreed to her plan. They decided to build a secret tunnel, and immediately started working on it. One year later, after working hard at nights to build it, the tunnel was ready. It started at Felka’s room and the end was roughly two hundred meters away from the last guard surrounding the camp. What they didn’t know was that the soldiers suspected them. Felka knew it, but she always knew that they needed to wait for the perfect time to escape. On December 17, 1943, Felka and her friends were ready to leave the camp forever. I am here, thought Felka, and tomorrow morning, I am about to attempt the near impossible.

The group of young ladies stayed awake in their beds until two o’clock in the morning, and when the time was right, they started crawling through the tunnel. Luckily, Felka was first and she was moving as fast as she could. Some of the guards heard the noise and came inside the room to investigate. When they saw no one inside, the Nazis were furious. They stormed about, their boots creating loud echoes.

Within the tunnel, Felka heard the familiar sounds. Boots. “Hurry up!” she cried to her friends. One of the guards found the tunnel. “Over here!” he called. The soldiers pushed him out of the way and entered the tunnel. Felka could catch the sounds of their movements. Her heart raced. Sweat drenched her forehead. Freedom was getting further away, but not far enough. Felka scrambled out of the tunnel and into the air. She half-turned back to help her friends when she heard a gunshot. There was no time to lose. She hoisted her friends out of the tunnel and ran. The soldiers cursed and sped after the women, but Felka and her friends that survived were long gone. They escaped through a forest nearby. It took them a day to reach the nearest village disguised as Polish women. They wore necklaces with Jesus’ cross on them, and cut their hair short to blend in. It worked. For the first time in a year, Felka felt peaceful. I attempted the near impossible. I succeeded. Wouldn’t my family be proud.

*****

After World War 2, Felka moved to Israel and remarried. Today, she’s a 95-years-old woman who lives in Haifa, one of the biggest cities in Israel. Her dream of living a good life came true, and Felka had her own family: my family. I’m proud to call this wonderful, once-young woman my greatgrandmother.

END

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About the Authors: Georgie Beale has been at the Canadian International School of Hong Kong only since the start of this school year. She loves the English course here where she is able to write stories. Inspirations come from everyday life and the characteristics from them then inspire her to write. She also writes about issues that are happening in her life and relates her feelings to stories using metaphors. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not a big reader but she loves to write; mystery is one of her favourite genres. Georgie is a pretty chilled, easy-going kind of person with a lot to do in her free time. Andrew B. is a fourteen year old student that enjoys creative illustrative stories set in an older time period, like the classic tale of Indiana Jones and other nineteenth century creations, all of which influenced this piece of work set in the thirties. Andrew enjoys playing basketball and boxing, but is also fascinated with theatre and likes to act. He lives with his family in Hong Kong. Celine Chan's just like any other ordinary girl in CDNIS who lives in Hong Kong, but the only thing that makes her unique is her interest in writing fiction stories! Combining enjoyable events from daily life, shocking reports from the news, and fairytales from her childhood, creates a BIG BOOM, and a new story is created, FRESHLY written. Through her stories, she hopes that her readers will see magic; she hopes that her reader's imagination will blossom into something amazing. Jaime Deverall is a young boy who enjoys writing fictional mystery stories based upon topics that have very little to do with his personal-life but rather, based upon the personalities and characteristics of other people he knows. He then uses these personalities as the personalities of the characters in the story. He believes that combing them with an unpredictable and dynamic plot makes for a very believable and therefore even more mysterious story. In his free time, Jaime enjoys playing computer games, watching movies at the cinema, chatting to friends on-line, and playing tennis and football. These activities keep him relaxed and give him a large boost of inspiration for his story writing. Janani Dhileepan is fourteen years of age, and goes to the Canadian International School of Hong Kong. Along with writing this short story, she also enjoys poems, riddles, and is currently writing a novel. She gets most of her ideas at night, in a dream, when it is the most far-fetched and different. Apart from writing, Janani likes reading, listening to music, and studying mathematics. Veronica Dickson La Rotta is a 14 year-old girl currently living in Hong Kong where she is an 8th grader in the Canadian International School. She lives with her mother, father, younger sister and her chocolate lab, Cooper. She likes to hike and swim, and her favorite thing to do in her free time is to relax and read. Veronica enjoys writing, when she has time. Amit Gal-Or moved to Hong Kong just over two years ago, which is when he started speaking English. Moving a new country changed his perspective on everything and when he got the assignment of writing a story, he was very excited. He took on the challenge very seriously and was able to write his story while balancing his time with friends and sports.

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Halle Hagan lives in Hong Kong with her father, however, she was taught to write as a child by her mother, a former English teacher. In her elementary days, she was to write a poem or story almost every day, in order to practice for creative writing in the future. These habits continued into her early middle school years, not under the requirement of her parents, but because of her own passion for the written word. To this day, Halle's favourite hobby is writing, as well as her favourite way to present school projects. Aspiring to be a physiologist since the age of ten, Kaitlyn Ho tries her very best in all things academic, but also manages to have a balance between friends and schoolwork. Kaitlyn enjoys laying back and reading for an afternoon or playing basketball with close friends. But most important to her is spending quality time with her family, especially since her baby brother Kyle, is just learning to crawl. Lorraine Ho gets her inspiration for writing short stories from the little casual things that happen in life. As an eighth-grader in the Canadian International School of Hong Kong, she writes about events that occur there, interesting people she sees (green hair, red bangs), and stories she hears from different people while adding a twist of her own imagination. Lorraine enjoys reading, traveling, swimming, and spacing out in her free time. She lives in Hong Kong with her family and likes spending time with them. Tessa Hughes is an eighth-grader at the Canadian International School of Hong Kong. She lives with her brother, who is in the seventh grade, her parents and her two dogs. She gets inspiration from the pen she holds while writing; it spouts the words on its own, without prior consent to anyone else. Tessa enjoys reading, running, hanging out with her friends, and taking her dogs for long walks by the beach in her spare time. An amateur screenwriter and movie nerd, Toby Hung rarely writes stories on his own, but when forced to by his English teacher, he does so with great pleasure. He gets inspiration from his strange, meaningless dreams, the films of David Lynch, and his grandparents. When not writing, he enjoys chatting with his homies on the interweb, eating foie gras, catching up on Family Guy, and rating red carpet fashion on omg.yahoo.com. Alex McIntyre was born in Oakville, Ontario, and since then she has lived in Australia and Hong Kong. She lives with her parents, her big brother, and her dog, Nero. She enjoys writing, drawing, and reading in her spare time, and she hopes to professionally publish a novel in the future. Mira Sterckx's favorite subject has always been English. As an eighth-grader at the Canadian International School of Hong Kong, she finds inspiration everywhere she goes and writes about the interesting and imaginative ideas that cross her mind. Mira enjoys reading, swimming, dancing and of course writing in her free time. She lives in Hong Kong with her family and one cat and that she enjoys spending her time with. Emily Tang is an 8th grader in CDNIS. She enjoys reading books in her free time, and likes to daydream. Emily enjoys writing stories, and gets all her ideas from little things in life.

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